Drawing Swords
by Haleine Delail
Summary: When some vaguely medieval-looking characters turn up in early-twenty-first-century England, UNIT are, of course, out of their depth. It's going to take a genius with ties to both humanity and the cosmos to suss out the cause. Good thing there's one available.
1. Chapter 1

**Back to Ten and Martha with me! I haven't written anything expressly for the two of them in what feels like "a while," and I was getting kinda agitated! It's weird how much I miss them when I'm gone!**

**There's not much to say here except this story will be only _slightly_ shippy, but very sci-fi/mystery-y. There will be a few feels, a bit of humor, but mostly running, investigating, yelling, running for their lives... stuff like that. Are you in?**

**We begin sometime after "Journey's End."**

**Also, I'm not a medic - please be kind!**

**Perhaps I'll have more to say later, but for now, just enjoy!**

* * *

ONE

"Oh… my… God," Martha Jones mused, as she gaped at the tableau before her. Interestingly, even the very, _very _well-seasoned Chief Medical Officer of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce had ever seen anything like this.

To her left, a crew of two-dozen trained military men (and a few women) practically hopped backwards, retreated, and swore.

"What's the matter?" the officer next to her asked. It was the cheeky Sergeant Everdeen, a young, cuttingly clever black man who had been assigned to her charge. Whatever she needed, he was to get it. "Never seen a dragon breathing fire off the roof of the Leeds City Museum before?"

"Well, maybe once," she said, absently. "But I'd eaten this mushroom salad my friend Scorpion had made, and I think there was something in the wine."

"What?" Everdeen cackled. "Really?"

"Of course not," she replied, never taking her eyes off the dragon. "What do you take me for?"

"Did you ever really have a friend named Scorpion?"

"No!"

He laughed.

She felt a little guilty for her sarcasm, since, as it happened, she _had _seen some pretty weird stuff. And she _did _have some pretty weird friends.

"I saw a monster that was really an evolutionary reject fall from the bell tower of Southwark Cathedral, though," she offered.

"An evolutionary… wait, what?"

"Never mind."

There was a pause, then the young man asked, "Well, what d'you reckon we ought to do?"

"I'm a doctor. It's a dragon. There's not much I _can_ do. Unless someone's in shock, which… you know… fingers crossed, eh?"

The museum was surrounded on all sides by UNIT, and they fooled themselves that the dragon was contained. A lieutenant was shouting into a megaphone that they needed to stand their ground until further notice.

"Help is imminent," the Lieutenant insisted. "I repeat, help is imminent. But there are multiple sites of unexplained phenomena… other things are taking precedence."

"Help," Everdeen scoffed. "Yeah, right. We _are _the help. Who'd they call, Torchwood? Pfff."

"Dr. Jones?" her radio crackled just then. "You're needed."

She pulled it off her belt and said into it, "This is Martha Jones. What's happened?"

"I can't get a straight answer out of anyone. All I know is that there's loads of blood. Pools of it. Splatters of it."

"Oh, God," she groaned. "Tell me where to go."

"Leeds Town Hall," said the voice.

"Can you get me there?" Martha asked Everdeen.

"It's my job, innit?" he asked, motioning for her to follow him.

They dashed twenty yards to a jeep, and hopped in. She held on for a short, bumpy ride around the corner to Town Hall.

There, a crowd had gathered, as well as a squadron of UNIT officers. Martha held out her credentials and numerous people obliged her by stepping out of the way.

When she reached the middle of the chaos, she saw on the little plaza in front of the building, a big, messy pool of blood, and three people standing nearby, all splattered with it. Leading away, there were the prints of a barefoot human, who, it appeared, had simply walked away, dragging something big.

"Find me at least two more medics," she ordered Everdeen. "I'll need three full kits, including blankets and stretchers. Go!"

He saluted, and disappeared back into the crowd.

Two officers were standing nearby when she approached the three patients at a jog.

It struck her as odd that they were standing, and not kneeling to help the victims…

Then she realised, they weren't victims. They were witnesses. The three people covered in blood were sitting still, and upright, rather catatonic. The blood was not theirs.

"I'm Dr. Jones, what's your name?" she asked the officer standing nearest.

"Sergeant Gainey," he said.

"What's happened here?"

"A lion was decapitated," he said, shrugging. "That's their story, and they're sticking to it."

"Excuse me? A lion?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's what this woman says," he told Martha, gesturing to a woman hugging her knees. "A _lion_ walked into the square. A man very closely matching the description of Conan the Barbarian appeared a few seconds later, whereupon the two scuffled, culminating in the brutal, and messy, beheading of the feline in question. After that, the man walked off, round the corner, carrying the dripping bloody head of the lion in one hand, and dragging the body with the other. Meanwhile, this lot, as far as I can tell, stood, watched, became traumatised, and now you're up to speed."

Martha stared at him for a few moments, while he looked back at her, practically daring her to doubt him. After all, though, it wasn't _his_ story, and she realised that. And with what she'd already seen…

"Okay, she said with a sigh, I've got Sergeant Everdeen looking for more medics. Would you mind sticking by, just until they get here?"

"No problem."

"Who else saw what happened?"

"Dunno. Just these three, far as I can tell."

"I find that hard to believe," she said. "A _lion _gets _beheaded _in the middle of the city, and only three people see it? I suppose we should try and find other witnesses… but that's not really my department. Well, it just became my department. Can you see what you can do about that?"

"I'll give it a go," Sergeant Gainey said. He radioed his colleagues not to let anyone leave the perimeter they'd set up, that people needed to be questioned, especially if there had blood on their clothes, or seemed unusually detached.

"Also, has anyone checked to see if the local zoo is missing any animals?" Martha wondered.

"Someone's on that right now," he said.

Martha knelt between two of the people currently sitting on the ground, trembling. "Hi there. I'm Dr. Jones."

"Hi," said the woman, meekly, on her right. The two men said nothing.

"From what this man has told me, the three of you might be in shock," Martha said. "That can be quite serious, but fortunately, that's why I'm here. We're going to see that you get taken care of, okay? More people are on the way to help, but for now, I need you to…"

At that, the gathered crowd let out a collective gasp, then all separately began snapping photos, exclaiming with surprise, et cetera. They were all looking in one direction: up at the clock tower of Leeds Town Hall, and Martha followed their gaze.

"Oh, come on," she groaned, when she saw a person climbing the columns, high above the street. To Sergeant Gainey, she said, "Let me borrow your binoculars."

Gainey handed over his UNIT-issue binocs, and Martha studied the individual now climbing the historic building.

She was wearing what looked like a gold bathing suit, with triangles cut out at the waist, and shiny shells barely concealing her truly impressive breasts. She had muscular arms and legs, and wore boots that laced up all the way to her knees. She had flaming red hair, exaggeratedly supple lips, and dramatically almond-shaped eyes. Over her shoulders, there was an X-shaped weapons holster, and when she moved a certain way, Martha could see that she carried at least two medieval-looking swords across her back.

"This is ridiculous," she said, handing the binoculars back. "Take a look."

Gainey looked. "What the fuck? This looks like a D&D player's wet dream!"

"You've got a way with words, soldier," she commented. Then she sighed, and admitted, "But you're not wrong. I wonder what…"

Again, her thought was interrupted, this time by a sound. A grinding, screeching, familiar sound…

"Oh, what now?" the officer asked, exasperated, annoyed, and the like.

Martha said, nothing, but she looked around, searching for the source of the sound. She knew it well. It was the sound of the fabric of the universe and the Time Vortex slipping, scraping by the heart of an otherworldly vehicle.

But it didn't seem to be getting any closer. Then again, that could just be a result of the din of humanity around them.

"What's that?" a woman nearby asked. Martha saw her pointing to the corner of the Town Hall, where the faint outline of a blue box was materialising on the roof.

So that's why it seemed so far away. Because it was.

Predictably, then, a man stepped out of the box. He was tall, thin, had dark hair, and wore a blue suit. His gait was relaxed, as he walked across the roof with his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, I see. That's the Doctor," Sergeant Gainey said to her, assuming she didn't know. "Independent contractor."

"You don't say," Martha said back. She chuckled inwardly. She'd heard the Doctor described in myriad ways, but _independent contractor_ had never been one of them. It seemed a comically mundane for him.

The climbing woman unsheathed and held out her weapon as the Doctor approached, and he put up both hands in a gesture of disarmament.

And he spoke to her. No-one could hear what was being said, but then the woman spoke back, and made warrior-like gestures.

After half a minute or so, the woman climbed down, and stood on the platform at the bottom of the clock tower, and continued talking with the Doctor.

He stepped closer, and she retreated… so he stopped.

Martha had already turned back to her three patients, and begun checking them for injuries, asking questions, and assessing them for shock. After a minute or so, two more field doctors turned up. Martha kept one eye on the proceedings on the roof, and managed to get her patient on her feet, and walking toward the EMT tent.

It took the Doctor about the same amount of time to talk the red-haired warrior into the TARDIS, and then dematerialise from the roof.

"Dr. Jones?" said yet another voice over the radio at her hip.

"This is Martha Jones, go ahead," she said, as another doctor walked away with all three patients.

"Someone has been hurt," said the voice. "I couldn't get an accurate description… it sounded like Lieutenant Spinney said _a man with a sword_ but that sounds daft…"

"No, I've heard the same thing. What's happened?"

"I guess he stabbed someone? Slashed someone?"

"Shit! Where?"

"In front of Leeds Cathedral," said the voice.

"Thanks," she said, and she picked up one of the med kits, and looked about. Sergeant Everdeen and his Jeep were nowhere to be seen in this throng of people who had gathered. She called out, "How far's the cathedral?"

A few people nearby said _two blocks_, so she began to jog, following the trail of lion's blood, away from the scene.

It took her only two minutes or so to find the _mêlée_ in question.

On the sidewalk in front of the cathedral, there was a crowd gathered. There was also a man dressed in brown leather britches, an X-like weapons holster (like the red-haired climber, a bare chest, and a Prince Valiant haircut, standing in a threatening stance, holding aloft the dripping head of a lion. He had a build like the Pyramids at Giza, only inverted, and he growled at the onlookers, as though he were an animal.

There was also the headless body of a lion lying nearby, and an injured bystander, now bleeding from the femoral artery, onto the sidewalk. He was turning pale.

A man was kneeling behind him, holding him, putting pressure on the wound, softly whispering reassurances that he'd be okay.

Over the radio, there were crackles of Lieutenant Spinney ordering all available officers to the cathedral scene.

Martha fell to her knees beside the injured man, immediately asking the man holding him, while digging in her medical bag, "How long ago did this happen?"

"Two minutes, give or take," said the man. "His BP his dropping… fading off quickly. Too quickly for comfort. Stay with me, Jacob! What's your middle name, mate? Who's the Prime Minister?"

Absently, she noted, _oh good, he's a medic. _

"How did it happen?" she asked, pulling on some surgical gloves

"He tried to help," the man explained. "Tried to talk to the lion guy to show he was unarmed, and got slashed through the femoral for his trouble."

"Why are these people still here?" she wondered, now tearing open a sealed packet, containing a rubber tourniquet.

"Well, you know what humans are like," the man chuckled.

"Don't I ever," she said, absently, eyes on the wound. "Okay, I'm going to need you to move your hand like this…"

The man did as she wanted, just half a moment before she showed him. Again, she noted, _he knows what he's doing – that will make this a right sight easier._

"He's losing consciousness," he said. "Jacob! Jacob, no, don't you dare fall asleep! Jacob, listen, are you married? Yeah? What's your wife's name? Oh, husband? Brilliant! What's his name?"

"Good, good, keep him going…" Martha said, tying off the tourniquet just so, to slow the bleeding. "Because step two is a bandage, but step three is to get some aspirin into him to slow the bleeding further. Hopefully we can get him stabilised, and to the General Infirmary before he bleeds out."

Martha dug back into her bag, and produced a roll of gauze. With help, she wrapped the bandage about twenty times around the wound, and as expected, the fabric began to soak through, though not as quickly as if the bleeding were being allowed to run rampant.

"Okay, Jacob, next thing is aspirin," she said to him. He very faintly nodded.

"Need water?" asked the man.

"No, just…damn it!" she cried out.

"What?"

"All the drugs are secured in a separate compartment in the kit, and the bloody lock is jammed!" She tried two more times to pry it open, then let out a scream of frustration, before getting to her feet, and shouting to the crowd, "Does anyone have any aspirin on them? Check your purses, check your pockets…"

"Oi! Dr. Jones?" said the man's voice, now crouching near her kit. "I've got it open."

"Thank God! How did you do it?"

"Sonic screwdriver," he answered.

"Thanks. Now, Jacob, I'm going to need you to swallow some pills for me, okay? I'm going to crush them first so they'll be fast-acting, so it's not going to taste good. Can you swallow?"

Jacob nodded faintly, and swallowed, showing he could do so.

Martha used a special tool to grind up the pills, then he said, "Lay him back, please."

The man laid Jacob back a bit, and held his head at just the right angle, so that the good doctor could pour powder and water down his throat, with his cooperation.

It was then that about a dozen UNIT officers arrived, and began to try and force the lion-beheader into submission. Among them was Sergeant Everdeen, and one other doctor, who were navigating a stretcher down the street, having heard that someone was attacked with a sword.

"Fantastic, thank you," Martha said.

"An ambulance is on the way. I'm going to go help that lot," Everdeen told her, and ran off to be a soldier.

The second doctor knelt and took Jacob's shoulder and knee, and looked at the man who'd been helping, and said, "On three?"

The two of them hoisted Jacob onto the stretcher, and pushed him toward the road that connected with Town Hall, just in time for an ambulance to arrive. They put him in the back, quickly briefed the EMT, then sent him off.

And only now, as they were walking back toward her, did Martha notice that one of them was wearing a blue pin-striped suit, covered in blood, along with red Converse on his feet, and a deeply familiar, subtle smile aimed right at her.

* * *

**As usual, I'm needy. Reviews are love!**

**Thanks for tuning in!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, our good Dr. Jones had not realized that the man who'd been there helping her trying to save Jacob's life had been... well, a familiar man in pinstriped suit. :-) I figure, if the situation is critical enough, and she gets into "the zone," she'd deem the patient the only important person in the vicinity. So then yes, it's possible she'd get distracted enough not to see who is assisting. Even when he said "sonic screwdriver." It's a phrase she's used to hearing when the chips are down and adrenaline is high, so it might not register right away that it's a bizarre thing to hear in this particular situation. *shrug* To me it makes a kind of sense.**

**Also, apparently, I made a mistake in thinking that aspirin would slow the bleeding? Sorry about that, if anyone else noticed. I thought I recalled learning this from a movie, but either I'm remembering wrong, or the movie was wrong! Next time, I'll verify. **

**Anyway, more adventure ensues! Enjoy!**

* * *

TWO

The Doctor walked back toward her, blue suit smeared with blood. It was the blood of a man called Jacob, someone who had tried to intervene on this bizarre day, and speak with the warrior who had, apparently, severed the head of a lion, and was now threatening the town. Martha absently marvelled at how many times she had seen the spilled blood of Someone Who Just Tried To Help.

The Doctor smiled at her knowingly, undoubtedly prepared to tease her over the fact that the two of them had dressed a patient's wound together, administered drugs, and got him out on a stretcher, all without her realising who was assisting her.

But then his gaze switched to a spot to her right and behind her, and his face melted into a familiar expression, one of bewildered anger, and outrage.

"No, no, no, no, no!" he shouted. "Guns down! Guns down!"

He began running toward the group of men, now standing in a row, with their weapons trained on the warrior. Instinctively, Martha ran with him.

"Stand down, Doctor, this isn't your area!" said, apparently, the officer in charge, whom Martha recognised as Sergeant Gainey, whom she had met a few minutes before.

"Yes it is! This is exactly why you called me!" the Doctor protested, arriving at the line-up.

Martha noticed Sergeant Everdeen among the weapon-wielders. "Everdeen! What the hell?" she asked.

"Sorry, Dr. Jones," he said. "Can't talk now."

"No, I mean… are you mad? Step away! Now!" she demanded.

"With all due respect, Dr. Jones, your area is shock, blood and guts. Doctor, your expertise is in extraterrestrial sciences," Gainey shouted. "Not in artillery or in subduing a perpetrator!"

The Doctor gave a growl of frustration. Martha could see things escalating quickly.

The Doctor shouted, "Wrong! The only reason you lot think it's not my area is that I never allow it, because it doesn't solve a bloody thing! When you will you people learn that? Why the hell do you bring me into these things if you're not going to listen to a thing I say?" Then he turned to Martha briefly and said, "Blimey, you'd think _I'd_ learn, wouldn't you?"

The crowd was now beginning to respond to the Doctor's words… in different ways.

This made Martha decidedly nervous as well. Moral arguments would always splinter an excited crowd.

"Stick to your…" began Gainey.

"Stick to extraterrestrial stuff, eh?" the Doctor interrupted. He stepped out between the warrior and the line of weaponry. He quickly realised it probably wasn't wise to put the unknown quantity behind him, so he began walking about, back and forth, around, pacing, keeping the warrior at his side, and in the corner of his eye. The warrior stopped threatening the UNIT officers, and began watching the Doctor, staring at him perplexedly.

"Doctor, remove yourself from the scene, or we will remove you," said one of the officers.

A little part of Martha's brain sighed, and said _Oh, bloody hell, here we go._

"Oh, come on!" the Doctor practically screamed, gesturing at the warrior. "What part of this scenario says _terrestrial_, eh? Look at him! He looks like one of those He-Man action figures from the 1980s! And he's subdued _a lion, _all on his own, and decapitated it with a weapon that's clearly not large enough for such a thing. This isn't from the past, present, or future of _this _planet, so what the hell is it, eh?"

"I give up!" Gainey said. "Why don't you tell us?"

"I don't know!" the Doctor said, loudly, slowly, with exasperation. "Isn't that what Colonel Mace wanted me to find out? Where this guy came from? And the lion? What he is? How he's possible? He and the buxom building-climber, and the fire-breathing dragon, or had you forgotten?"

"No, but…"

"A man was slashed in the femoral artery for his trouble, and he nearly died," the Doctor said. "And he wasn't carrying a weapon. All he did was wave his arms about a bit, and it agitated this man enough that he lashed out. What do you think your guns are doing to him?"

"Well then, Doctor, what do you suggest we do?" asked the officer, much to Martha's relief. The Doctor's way was usually harder, but it was always the least brutal.

But that relief was short-lived, because that was when about a dozen darkly-dressed individuals stepped out of the crowd.

"Step aside, Scotland Yard," a crisp female voice said. "Everyone! Lower your weapons… you in the suit, I suggest you move away."

"What?" asked the Doctor. "Scotla… what? Are you serious?"

The female agent in question then reached into her holster with lightning speed, and tazed the warrior, bringing him to his knees. He began to shout incoherently, and swing his sword. Someone came up behind him and touched him with an electrical prod, causing him to scream, and drop his sword. A third agent tazed him a second time in the chest, causing him to lose consciousness, and keel over.

UNIT officers all stood practically at attention with their weapons at their sides.

The Doctor very loudly protested each offensive stroke they made, to no avail.

Martha moved forward, grabbed the Doctor by the arm, and pulled him backward. "Get out of their way," she said, softly.

"Excuse me!" he said, still trying to move forward, trying to interfere while the unconscious warrior was cuffed. "I don't think you understand…"

"Sir," said a man, pressing his hand against the Doctor's lapel. "We'll handle this. Are you with UNIT?"

"I honestly don't know!" the Doctor told him, watching several agents now struggle to get the warrior hoisted well enough to drag to the van. "We don't know who he is, where he's come from, how…"

"Doctor," Martha interrupted. "You're no good to anyone from inside a jail cell. Well actually, that's not entirely true, but it makes things so much more difficult. Come on – back off. Please."

He looked at her squarely for the first time. "Fine," he said.

"We'll get him out if that's what we need to do," she whispered. "But wouldn't it be good to have him contained for now?"

"That sounds like UNIT talking! Are you just following orders, or what?" he asked her, rather harshly. He regretted it almost immediately.

"No, I'm being practical," she said, calmly. "In general, I'm not required to follow orders."

He retreated a few steps, and nodded ever-so-subtly. Martha relaxed, recognising these as the Doctor's temporarily standing-down gestures.

The two of them watched as four large male Scotland Yard agents lifted the warrior and took him toward a black, unmarked vehicle parked nearby.

From there, the agents began to clear the area. They covered the lion's headless body and bodiless head with white sheets, a crew started cleaning up Jacob's blood, and another crew put up barriers and signs declaring the area a biohazard zone, which both doctors reckoned was probably for the best.

The Doctor took a deep breath, and seemed to come to. At the very least, Martha could see him consciously shaking off some of the agitation of the last few minutes. He needed a clear head, and here it was.

"Thanks… for talking me down a bit," he said.

"No problem. Now you can actually _work_."

"Yeah… how about that? You're pretty clever, you know?"

"I've learned from the best."

"Listen, where do you need to be right now?" he asked her, looking around at all the action.

"Dunno," she said. "I'm basically just on-call here. I go where the radio tells me."

"Well until you receive another beckon, come with me," he said. "Have you got a swab kit in your medical bag?"

"Yeah," she said, crossing a bit of sidewalk to get it. "What do you need my help with?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something," he said, with one of those little smiles that suggested he was looking to get a rise out of her. He put his hands in his pockets, and waited for her to respond… however she might.

She chuckled, and then, in this moment, for the fist time in a long, long while, she really looked at him. Her mind was clear, for now, of any Chief Medical Officer concerns…

And _God_, he was handsome. She had almost forgotten.

Well, not really _forgotten_ – that was daft.

But she had almost got to a point where she could think about this fact, and not get wrapped up in it. The memory of his eyes and lips was not all-consuming anymore. The burn of her cheeks when she thought about where he'd grabbed her, then planted that Genetic Transfer on her was almost gone. Almost.

She could sometimes see a man with a flamboyant spiky hairdo and not immediately think he paled in comparison. Sometimes, she could see a pin-striped suit, or a pair of Converse, and not pine at all.

Sometimes.

She had been making progress, and Tom Milligan had done a lot, both consciously and unconsciously, to help with that, but… ah, poor Tom.

And now, with four seconds of focused smouldering, smirking, hands-in-pockets cool, a year's worth of resolve fell apart.

_Oh boy. Let the self-loathing begin._

She smiled – she couldn't help herself – and she dropped the bag once again, and moved forward slowly as he held out his arms to her. In the end, he couldn't quite wait, and he took a few steps to meet her. His arms closed around her, and he lifted her up of her feet with a grunt of excitement, and kissed her cheek heartily.

And she giggled. She just couldn't keep it in. She didn't even care about the blood that had just been smeared all over the front of her UNIT-issue jumpsuit. It was black - who would notice?

* * *

By the time the two of them walked into the TARDIS with an objective in mind, Martha had been released from the scene by Colonel Mace, and the Doctor had been contacted four times by higher-up UNIT operatives, who were wondering what he was doing, and when he'd be able to help with the dragon. Miraculously, UNIT's stealth forces had managed to sedate it, but they still needed the Doctor's help working out what the hell to do next.

"I'm working on it from another angle," the Doctor had assured them. "Keep it sedated as long as you can – it buys me time. I'll let you know when I know."

And just like that, Martha Jones was back in-the-loop, and everyone else at UNIT was outside of it.

"Martha Jones, meet Xanthavia," the Doctor said, gesturing to the busty redhead in a gold leotard, boots, and a leather weapons holster, currently sitting on the chair in the console room.

Martha said, uneasily, "It's nice to meet you."

The redhead barely nodded at her, as she continued to immerse her attention in the apparatus in her hand.

"You'll have to excuse her, she's… busy," the Doctor said, frowning. "It was the only way I could keep her in one spot. Can't have her wandering around in here, and couldn't have her intervening with the Lion King outside."

"I see," Martha said. Then she studied the thing in the woman's hand, and asked, "Is that a Game Boy?"

"Yeah," the Doctor said. "_Finally_ Tetris is good for something. Come on."

They walked down one of the corridors of the TARDIS, and she asked, "Is her name seriously Xanthavia?"

"I'm not sure," the Doctor confessed. "But I kind of doubt it."

"It sounds totally…"

"…made up?"

"Yeah," she agreed.

They took a few twists and turns down a hallway where Martha had never been before, and finally wound up in a lab. The Doctor took a test tube from his pocket, which had inside of it a swab soaked with lion's blood, a sample they had taken at the scene of the decapitation, just as UNIT's second-wave sanitation team were arriving.

They used some non-terrestrial machinery to test the sample…

…but as in any lab, one must wait for results.

The first thing the Doctor did was disappear for five minutes, and reappear wearing a fresh brown suit, not blood-stained at all.

And when he did so, Martha jumped right into asking questions.

"Doctor? What do you think is happening here? I mean, we've got a dragon, we've got Xanthavia the climber, and we've got Conan the lion-tamer. I think you were right when you said that nothing about this exactly screams _Earth-based,_ but I've been knocking about with alien work for a few years now, this doesn't scream _extraterrestrial_ either."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm hoping this test will shed some light."

"It screams _Dungeons and Dragons Came To Life,_ frankly, and that is terrifying."

The Doctor pulled one hand down over his face. This signalled to Martha that he felt more than a little harried. "Well, it could be something bleeding in from another universe or dimension," he suggested. "But I didn't feel anything like that… certainly the TARDIS would be uncomfortable in the presence of a breach."

"Could it be, I don't know, like… time folding over or something?"

"I'd feel something like that in my guts, Martha," he reminded her. "The bells going off in my brain would be so loud, _you _would hear them. Besides, in what era did dragons exist?"

"Maybe it's just a fire-breathing dinosaur that hasn't been discovered yet."

He smiled. "Oh! I wish that were true!"

"What if it's like in that movie _The Last Action Hero_, where the kid accidentally goes into the movie, and then the people in the movie accidentally come out of it?"

"That would not be impossible, with time travel, and if the transport hit a wonky spot in the vortex and bumped a little bit sideways, it would screw with reality just enough to blur the line between the movie and life…"

"Okay. Who has time travel, apart from you?"

The Doctor gazed at a spot just beyond her head. "No-one that would want to mess about with some city on Earth. But then, maybe it was an accident."

"Let's hope so," she mused.

"Could I have caused this myself?"

"A responsible man such as you? No chance."

He smirked, and they both sighed. There were a few moments of silence, in which the Doctor and Martha were wondering if any of the straws at which they were currently mentally grasping might lead to anything logical.

"Have you noticed the guy in the green jacket?" the Doctor asked, after a couple of minutes.

"No, who's he?"

"He's this guy I've seen… he wears an army-green-coloured pull-over anorak thing, that has bright orange cabling… you know, around the cuffs, hems, around the pocket in front, the zip. And now I think about it, I've seen him at every scene."

"Every scene where something weird and borderline-medieval happened today?"

"Yeah, exactly. He was lurking behind some of the UNIT guys when I arrived at the Leeds City Museum to deal with the dragon. Then, ten minutes later when I materialised on the roof of the Town Hall, I saw him standing way back on the street corner, all by himself, looking up at me. And, he was in the crowd at the Cathedral, especially when the warrior guy was arrested. He was in the second row of spectators, and he looked worried, yet was craning his neck to see."

"Hm. Well, do you suppose there are others who were in all three places? It's been a pretty interesting day in Leeds."

"I suppose, yes, but this guy had a distinctly _lurky _quality about him. It was almost a if he were _trying_ not to be noticed, or trying not to look directly at the crime scene, or something."

"Okay. Worth looking into. Do you suppose he was human?"

"I wouldn't make any such supposition at this stage," the Doctor said, showing his hands, in a disarmed fashion.

* * *

**Ooh! The mystery deepens! Heh-heh.**

**Anyway, if you're reading this, I'd love some feedback, as always! Thanks for your time!**


	3. Chapter 3

**So, our mystery doesn't advance too much here, but our heroes catch up on each other's lives, and that's really priceless, isn't it? ;-)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

THREE

Something went _ping_, and they knew that the equipment was finished testing the lion's blood.

"It's… not blood," the Doctor said, frowning at the screen that was displaying results in Gallifreyan.

"What? What does it say it is?" Martha asked, squinting at the screen, though she couldn't understand a thing.

"It says it's artificial. That's all."

"Artificial what?"

"Just… artificial."

"So, it's a substance that _looks _like blood? Is it organic?"

"No. It's artificial, Martha," he said, gesturing at the screen. "That's literally all it says. It doesn't say organic or inorganic, it doesn't say it's corn syrup or paint or anything like that."

She sank down onto a stool. "Well that's frustrating."

"But it tells us a lot," the Doctor said.

"It tells us nothing!"

"No, because if the TARDIS is saying _artificial_, without giving us anymore info, then that means it's actually artificial. Meaning, nothing about it is real. Meaning, it's not from this reality. Or any reality, it's…"

He trailed off, and Martha studied his face. After a few moments, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, "Yes? It's… what?"

"I don't know where I was going with that," he muttered. "But it definitely tells us a lot. I just don't know what yet."

"Well, what next, then?"

"I hate to say it," he told her. "But I sort of feel like we should get a hair sample from Xanthavia and test it as well."

"Worth a shot," she shrugged. "What are the odds the results won't come back the same?"

"Not good, I reckon. But maybe with _human_ fibres, it will tell us something else. If she is human. Or isn't, or…"

"Let's just go ask her if she'd mind," Martha said, standing up and moving toward the doorway of the lab. "Although, the way she was when we came in, I feel like we could pull several hairs from her head and she'd never notice."

The Doctor sighed, as he pulled a small pair of scissors from a drawer. "Tetris claims another victim."

The two of them made their way down the hall back to the console room, where the warlike ginger woman was sitting precisely where they'd left her.

"Hi, Xanthavia," he said to her. "Wondering if I could beg a moment of your time."

"Mm?" she said.

"Would you mind if we took some of your hair, just to do a mass spectrometric test (well, sort of), to learn a bit more about you?" he asked her. "You see, you're not exactly the sort of woman we normally see around these parts, and I'm wondering if we're missing some vital details about you."

She didn't answer.

The Doctor and Martha looked at each other.

"Should we just… cut some off?" he whispered.

"Best not," Martha said. Then, "Xanthavia, just a nod or a shake of your head will be fine. May we take a sample of your hair, yes or no?"

The redhead nodded absently, and played on.

"Okay, then," Martha said, gesturing toward the woman. "You've got the scissors."

He held them out to her. "You do it. If I do it, it's weird."

"And it's not weird if I do it?"

"No, you're a woman," he said.

"What? That's ridiculous! She doesn't care - she's barely aware either one of us is here!"

And that's when there was a knock at the door.

The two doctors, again, looked at each other. This wasn't exactly an everyday occurrence in the TARDIS.

"Are you expecting callers?" Martha asked, with a posh accent.

"Decidedly not," the Doctor said, raising his eyebrows.

"Do you have a camera system? Can we see who it is?"

"No," he whispered. "Just stay where you are. Get ready to run. Get her ready too."

"Run?"

"What if it's UNIT?" he asked her. "If they've come for _her_, then we can't let them take her."

"I can handle them," Martha reminded him. "I don't have to follow their orders, but I can give them."

"Just… if the two of you need to run, do it. Get lost in the TARDIS – I have ways of finding you. Okay? We just don't know what's coming."

"Fine," she sighed.

Martha moved toward the woman immersed in her Tetris game, and attempted to remove the apparatus from her hands, and was met with resistance. She set about trying to get her attention, and help her understand that there may or may not be a dangerous situation imminent…

When the Doctor opened the door, he said, "Oh! Hi."

"Who is it?" Martha called out.

"It's green jacket."

"It's… really?"

"Hi," said the young man outside, looking down at his jacket instinctively. "My name is Tim Malmay."

"Well, there goes our plan to try and find out who you are," the Doctor muttered.

Martha joined him at the door. There stood a man in his early twenties with an uneven beard, longish brown hair, and an army-green jacket with orange piping. He looked young, tired, and at the moment, harmless. But she could absolutely see how he could have been "lurky," in the Doctor's view.

"Hi, Tim Malmay," she said. "Funny you should drop in."

"What can we do for you, Tim?" asked the Doctor.

"Well, I know what's happening," said Tim.

"You know… what?" the Doctor asked, with interest.

"The lion warrior, the woman climbing the Town Hall, the dragon… I think I might have an idea what's going on. I mean, what's causing them to… exist."

"Seriously?" Martha wondered.

"Yeah, erm… the answers are at my flat. Or they _may_ be at my flat. Can you guys follow me home?"

"Wait a moment," the Doctor said, stepping out of the TARDIS, and gesturing for Martha to do the same. He shut the door, and crossed his arms. "_You_ know what's going on? And you want us to follow you? How do we know it's not a trap?"

Tim smirked, and shrugged. "I guess you don't," he said. "I suppose I could give you my word as a gentleman, and an Englishman – despite appearances, I'm actually both – that I'm honest, and I'd never hurt a fly."

Honestly, neither Martha nor the Doctor received any "vibe" from him, other than the fact that he wasn't local (he definitely had a _southern_ accent, rather than the local northern), and seemed exhausted.

"Why can't you just tell us?" Martha asked.

"I don't think you'd believe me," Tim said, sheepishly. "It's to do with my brother. I think he's causing it somehow."

"How could that be?" the Doctor said.

"He's special. Like, really special. I'd like you to come and see."

"Why us?" the Doctor asked. "I mean, the vicinity is literally crawling with police, Scotland Yard, military… and you chose us?"

"I've been watching you," he said. "Both of you, and sorry… I followed you back to this box. But out of all the expert-types wandering around out there, you're the only ones who've been showing any sort of finesse or compassion."

The Doctor blinked hard. "Oh. Thanks."

This was indeed disarming. It was the sort of thing the Doctor strove for, and on a day like today, it was rarely appreciated by anyone other than those who knew him, and his methods, really well.

Tim continued, "You _talked_ Xanthavia down from the clock tower, instead of forcing her down with a gun. And Dr. Jones – I heard your name when you were dealing with patients in shock – I like your bedside manner, if that's what it's called. You help people understand what's happening to them, along with treating them. I like the way you communicate."

"Thanks," Martha said, now disarmed herself. "I try."

To the Doctor, he said, "You tried to get those military guys to back off because you were concerned about agitating Valanon…"

"Valanon?" Martha asked.

"That's the name of the lion warrior. I mean, I could see that you were worried about the safety of other bystanders if he became agitated and tried to kill someone else, but also, I got the sense that you were asking those men to stand down for Valanon's sake, as well."

"You did? You got that?" the Doctor asked.

"I did. I mean… was I wrong?" Tim wondered.

"No, no… it's just, sometimes I wonder if anyone's even listening, let alone…" the Doctor said, then he sighed.

"I was listening. And I'm very sensitive," Tim shrugged, a bit shyly. "I can read people pretty well. That's thanks to my brother also. And that's why I came to you. My brother needs what you have: know-how with the bizarre stuff, but with a sensitive touch. Because like I said, he's special, and I don't think I can stop him doing what he's doing."

"Okay… Martha, I'm going to get our, erm, _guest_ squared-away in a spare bedroom with a lock on the outside of the door," the Doctor said. "If you could get an address, we will meet Mr. Malmay at his home."

The Doctor disappeared inside the TARDIS to make sure Xanthavia was secured, and Martha recorded Tim's address into her phone, and promised to see him in a half-hour.

* * *

They realised that the Malmay residence was half a mile away, so they decided to walk, and it gave them a chance to chat.

Locking up the TARDIS, the Doctor said, "So, in all the commotion, I've been forgetting to ask: how are the wedding plans coming along?"

Martha chuckled. "They're not."

"What? Why not? What happened?" he asked, as they began to walk.

"It wasn't meant to be," she shrugged. "Nothing _happened_, per se. The whole thing was just too fast, and an overall bad idea. I literally woke up one morning and realised, I barely know this man, he's in _Africa,_ and I'm not _that_ keen on spending the rest of my life with him. He had something similar happen, apparently over dinner one night, just after he came back."

"Well, truth be told, I did wonder at the quickness of it – met, courted, engaged, all in less than six months."

"Yep," she said. "Thank God we were clever enough to set the wedding date out a bit, so we didn't rush into that as well. My dad got his deposit back on the dance hall, and the catering – no harm done."

"Except to you, perhaps," he suggested, looking at his feet moving forward over the sidewalk.

"Actually, Tom did me a lot of good," she shrugged. "I'm glad I knew him, glad for the relationship – no regrets there. It _should_ have just been kind of a fun rebound thing. I mean, there was _some_ depth, of feeling – it wasn't just physical, obviously. But none of it was built to last."

The Doctor said the word "Rebound," aloud, before he could stop himself.

"Well, yeah," she told him, a bit quietly. She elbowed him gently. "I'd had my heart broken."

"So had I," he admitted, matching her quiet tone.

"Yeah, maybe… all in one moment," she said, remembering the look on his face when she left. "Not slowly over the course of two years."

The Doctor groaned, and pulled one hand down over his face again. "Blimey."

"Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have been so blunt."

"No, no, it's fine," he said. "I reckon I deserve it."

"A bit," she joked. Then she took a deep breath. "Anyway, Tom knew I worked for UNIT, and he didn't have to be convinced that alien life is real and all that… so I sort of explained you, who you are, and who you are to me. He took it really well, and for our one-month anniversary…"

"You had a one-month anniversary?"

"Yeah," she rolled her eyes. "It was really just an excuse for wine and sex."

"You needed an excuse for that?"

"For that type of wine, yes. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, as a gift, he gave me plane tickets to Greece."

"Greece? After one month?"

"Mm-hm. He said he wondered if I'd like to travel with someone who doesn't expect me to save him."

"Wow," the Doctor said, flatly.

"I mean, it kind of proved that he was profoundly missing the point of the whole travelling-in-the-TARDIS, and hanging-out-with-you thing, but I thought it also proved that he had been listening, and he was _trying_."

"Was he?"

"Was he what? Trying? Yes, of course he was."

"No, I mean, was he missing the point?"

"I thought so," she said, looking up at him. "Don't you?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" she asked, studying him briefly. Then, "Either way, he was trying to help me get over you – get over all of it. And he was doing it in a nice way, not by getting all masculine and territorial, or by trashing you, or trying to encourage me to forget about it. The way I interpreted it was, he was trying to understand what I needed, and that made me fall, at least a little bit, in love with him."

"But then you fell out of love?"

"Yeah, more or less. I wasn't in that deep, obviously. I mean, I never loved him the way I…" she stopped herself, not quite ready to get _that _frank.

A silence hung in the air, while they both contemplated the words she _hadn't_ said.

"And… did you, you know… get over… all of it?" he asked, after a bit.

"Oh Doctor, I'll never be over all of it," she confessed, with a big sigh. "Not completely. Which has been made abundantly clear to me today."

"What? You didn't even notice me!" he laughed

"I was in doctor-mode!" she insisted. "Once my blinders were off, believe me, I noticed you."

"Well, I noticed you, too. Well done out there, Dr. Jones. Tim was right: you've got finesse and compassion, and for my money, more know-how than the rest of your organisation put together."

"Thank you."

The Doctor resisted the urge to say something flirtatious just now – he reckoned that a moment that touted her brains and professionalism was not something to be undercut by innuendos and reducing her to blushes.

But the flirting had always come naturally with Martha – eventually it was going to slip out. It was inevitable.

"So did you two actually go to Greece?" he asked, figuring it was a safe enough question.

"Yes," she said. "And it was nice. It's where he proposed. After we'd been dating for two months. He knew he was off to Africa soon, so..."

"Human life is short, I suppose," he sighed.

"That's kind of what I thought at the time," she confirmed. And the _human life is short _revelation reminded her of something. She wasn't sure if she should bring it up, but she thought, it was a pretty big elephant-in-the-room among friends. So she took a breath, and said, "Doctor, I heard about what happened to Donna."

This was not where the Doctor had expected this conversation to go next. He felt choked for a few moments.

"Yeah," he whispered, unable to say anything else.

"She came up on my list of psychiatric cases to be delegated," she told him. "I had to read her file. We've got her on long-term watch now."

"Yeah," he repeated. Actually, he was a bit surprised by this, though thinking about it, he shouldn't be - it made perfect sense. He hadn't fully thought it through, the fact that when he'd asked Colonel Mace to place Donna under care, that it would inevitably fall to UNIT's Chief Medical Officer to accommodate that request.

"I'm so sorry," Martha whispered, taking his hand.

"I'm sorry, too," he said. "For putting that on you. I didn't mean to."

"No, stop it, it's my job," she responded. "I was honoured to do it, though saddened of course. I'm sorry for your loss, Doctor. Truly."

"Thanks," he said, squeezing her hand.

"So, are you on your own now?" she asked, taking her hand back.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I guess I'm… well, heartbroken again."

Martha nodded. "Don't stay alone for too long, Doctor. I get that it's difficult to find someone new, in light of things, but… it was Donna who understood better than anyone: you need someone."

"I know I do," he agreed. "And I gravitate toward _people_, not toward solitude, in general. But sometimes I think I'm just a wrecking ball. I lost Rose, uprooted your life, destroyed Donna. How could I put someone else in the path of destruction?"

"We've chosen to stand in that path, knowing it _could_ lead to destruction, and we do it because it's a better life. Yeah, you uprooted me, and my family, but notice: I'm still here. I'm still talking to you. I'm still doing the work you taught me to do."

"Still think it's worth it?" he asked her.

"I do," she said, though he could tell from her tone of voice that she was about to qualify it with something. "It's just, sometimes I'm just not sure UNIT is the best way to do it."

"Ah."

"They're a bit _inside the box_," she told him.

"I've always found the same thing."

"The paperwork is relentless, and I'm so not cut out for the military. At all. Even as an officer who doesn't have to take orders. I don't like giving them, either, and… you know, the solution rarely lies in _just_ medicine or biology. Sometimes I can't get at the big-picture, even if I can see it, because officially, I have only one area of expertise."

"And you've just described every reason why I lend an occasional hand to UNIT, but refuse to 'work for' them anymore."

"You're still on the payroll, though."

"But do they pay me?"

"_Touché_," Martha said, with a chuckle.

Just then, her mobile phone rang. Ordinarily, communiqués from UNIT came over the radio system, unless it was Colonel Mace or someone of that ilk, trying to contact her directly and/or privately.

"Uh-oh," the Doctor said."

"This is Dr. Jones," she said, answering the phone, just as they reached the edge of the estate where Tim Malmay lived. She was quiet for a few moments, then thanked the caller, and cut off the call. To the Doctor she said, "Colonel Mace wants me to let you know that they've sedated the dragon and bought you some time, but we don't have all of time and space at our disposal, so they'd like you to get a shift on."

"Charming," the Doctor said. Then he gestured to the estate. "Shall we?"

* * *

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**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

"Hi," said Tim Malmay as he opened the door to the small council estate flat he shared with his brother. "Thanks for coming."

He stepped aside, and gestured for the Doctor and Martha to come inside.

The place had dark wood paneling, and looked like it hadn't been redone since the late seventies, and the curtains were drawn. This made it feel very dank, but it was clean, and basically like every other estate flat they had ever been in. There were boxes stacked against one wall, and not much furniture… they both reckoned that Tim and his brother had not lived here long.

Tim invited them to sit down on the old, brown, tartan-printed sofa, which they did.

"Would either of you like a cup of tea?" he asked them.

"No, thanks," the Doctor said. "Tim, why are we here?"

"Be right back," said the young man, and he disappeared down the short hallway off to their right. They heard a door open, and they heard a bit of rustling about, including his muffled voice responding to a second muffled voice. Then the door closed, and Tim reappeared with a notebook, and he handed it to the Doctor. "Here you go."

The Doctor looked back and forth between Tim and the notebook several times with confusion, before opening it. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Wow."

On the very first page was a very realistic pencil drawing of the Leeds Town Hall, with a very strong-looking, very busty woman climbing the clock tower. Hints of colour had been added to the drawing – her swimsuit-like outfit was outlined in gold, and her hair was partially shaded in shocking red. She of course had lace-up boots, and weapons carried in an x-shaped holster.

At the bottom of the page, the word _Xanthavia_ was scrawled in an artsy penmanship, above a short paragraph that read, _"She is a warrior who seeks peace. She is more intelligent than the men who are her counterparts, and speaks more sense than the soldiers who would subdue her." _In the bottom right corner, there was a signature: Curtis Malmay.

"Curtis is your brother?" the Doctor asked.

"Yes," Tim confirmed.

"And he created this character, Xanthavia?"

"Yes," Tim repeated. "Late last night, I think."

"This drawing is unbelievable," Martha said. "This is world-class talent, Tim. I mean, I've seen comic books not drawn this well."

Tim nodded a bit sadly. "I know."

The Doctor turned the page. On page two, there was an equally realistic pencil drawing of Leeds City Museum, on top of which was perched a beautiful, ornate, fire-breathing dragon. The drawing was not in color, and indeed, when they'd seen the dragon atop the museum, it had been graphite-grey. Though, the fire it breathed was plenty orange, and plenty hot. The drawing did not contain a paragraph, but was also signed by Curtis Malmay.

No-one had to voice the fact that somehow, Curtis' talent was manifesting fantastical beings and scenarios in Leeds - it was understood.

Well, not _understood, _but everyone could clearly see what was happening.

Both doctors could predict what they would see on the third page. It was a drawing, incompletely coloured-in, of a male warrior, exaggeratedly well-muscled and feral-looking. Like Xanthavia, he had an x-shaped holster for his weapon. He was, as expected, holding the head of a lion, still dripping blood, and the lion's body lay bleeding at his feet. At the bottom, the word _Valanon_ was written in the same artful script, though there was no paragraph describing the character.

"That explains why Xanthavia could speak to me and be reasoned-with, but Valanon, never spoke at all," the Doctor said, still feeling awkward saying these names.

"And why the lion's blood test came back as artificial," Martha added.

"I'm guessing Valanon is being created as the villain," Tim offered. "My brother would not view anyone as a hero, who performs barbaric acts on animals."

The Doctor turned the page, but there was nothing in the notebook after that.

"So… do you see?" Tim asked.

"We see," Martha responded.

"How is this possible?" the young man wanted to know. There were no other places to sit in the room, so he went to his knees across the coffee table from them, and leaned on it. "Curtis drew these characters last night. He doesn't copy from other sources, not even from real life – not for his living characters. They all come from his brain. I mean, obviously, he's pulling from a long history of what stereotypical comic-book and role-playing and fantasy warriors look like, but I'm confident that these are basically original creations. And they're coming to life! How is this happening?"

"Where is your brother now?" Martha asked.

"He's in his room, sulking," Tim said. "I took away his art supplies, so he's just watching TV."

"I'd like to examine him, if I could," she requested.

"Sure," Tim conceded.

"First, tell us a bit more about him," the Doctor said. "And yourself, if it's relevant."

"Well, we just moved here from Reading last week because I found a job here," Tim said. "I repair air conditioning and heating units, and a mate about this guy starting up a business here, paying twice as much as I was making down there, so I interviewed and got the job."

"And your brother came with you," the Doctor said.

Tim nodded. "It's been just me and my brother for a while now – our dad died when we were small, our mum passed away from cancer five years ago. So that leaves me to care for Curtis. Which I don't mind – I love him to bits. And he's an amazing person."

"How old is your brother?" Martha wondered.

"Twenty-five," said Tim. "Two years older than me."

"He's older than you?" she asked. "Sorry, you said you've got to care for him, I assumed he was still a child."

"He sort of is," Tim sighed. "I've got to look after him on account of his autism. He's always gone to special schools, always had help from the council, and it's been okay for us, overall. But he needs a bit of looking-after. Our mum always thought he couldn't have a job, though I reckon he could work part-time someplace, with the right sort of hand-holding."

"So during the day, where does he go? Can he stay home on his own?"

"He can be alone for a two or three hours, but not all day," Tim said. "So he goes to an adult day programme, paid for by the council of course, meant for people like him. There are students with a variety of different needs – _students_ is what they call them. But it's like dropping a child off at the minder's. I walk him down there in the morning, and collect him after work."

"How many individuals with special needs go there at any one time?" the Doctor asked.

"I'm not sure. I think maybe a dozen, perhaps a few more. I think I read that it's no more than a six-to-one ratio of students to counselors. There are three counselors that work there – they're incredible people."

"And what sorts of things do they do in the day programme?" the Doctor wondered.

"Well, they do activities that both accommodate and challenge the special needs of the students," Tim said. "I'm not sure what that means… I suppose it's a kind of therapy. But I think they also play games, do art projects, and the like. And yesterday they went on a walking tour of the city."

"Really?"

"Yes," Tim confirmed. "For Curtis' benefit, actually. They reckoned he was new in town, he'd need and want to find out more about his new home. So, they went to Leeds City Museum, Town Hall, and a few other places… I suppose that's where Curtis got part of his inspiration for his drawings."

"Thanks, Tim, actually, all of this information is really helpful," the Doctor said. "Is Curtis ever aggressive or…"

"Not really," said Tim. "At worst, once in a while, he has a blow-up, or a meltdown, or whatever you want to call it. He's got to be right scared for that to happen. He's got to feel very cornered, and then it usually takes a mild sedative to calm him down. But he doesn't go after people or anything."

"How often does that happen?"

"Once every six months, if that. He's prickly, arrogant, and irritable – like, a badger in a rosebush. A badger who knows a lot about science fiction, in a rosebush. At his best, when he's medicated, he seems just like you and me, only a bit shier. At any given moment, he can run the gamut anywhere in between. Most of the time, it's like being around a very pedantic child."

"You said, _when he's medicated_?" Martha asked. "You mean, he's not always medicated?"

Tim sighed. "He hates taking them. Says it makes him _not himself_."

"I could definitely see that," mused the Doctor. "Would you mind letting Dr. Jones examine Curtis now?"

"No problem," Tim said, standing up. "Right this way…"

"I think it would be better if you could convince him to come out here, to the parlour," the Doctor suggested. "I'd hate for him to feel cornered."

"I'll try," Tim sighed. "But he's really angry with me just now. Just give me a few minutes."

After Tim disappeared down the hall, the Doctor said, "I think I know how Curtis is doing this, but I'd have to bring him back to the TARDIS to be sure."

"Really? How?"

"I'll explain later. What I need from you is reassurance that Curtis is healthy otherwise. The test could drive up his blood pressure artificially, might make it hard for him to breathe for a minute or two. You know, I couldn't rule it that it would affect his blood sugar and white cell count as well."

"I can't do any tests on his blood just sitting here in the parlour!"

"I know," the Doctor said. "Do as much as you can until I can get back to the estate with the TARDIS, and then I can bring you all the stuff you need."

"So you want me to do a full physical with no equipment?"

"Just _begin,_" he said. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes or less – promise."

She put her hands on her hips and began to think. It had been a while since she'd done a full physical on a human being, but she was more than capable, and would know what to do as she went. Sometimes these things could be patient-driven.

"I suppose I could look at what meds he's taking and find out more about why he won't take them."

"Excellent – yes. That's important."

"Reflexes, pulse, joint health…"

"Perfect. See you in a bit," he said, letting himself out the front. "I'll park downstairs in the courtyard. I'm sure you'll hear the TARDIS."

"Yeah," she said, waving him off.

Another minute or so passed before Tim returned to the parlour. Behind him, walking slowly down the short hallway was a young man wearing a bright red hoodie, zipped up to the throat, and hood pulled over his head. He appeared to have longish, blondish hair, and his build was more substantial than that of his brother – he was a bit taller, and bulkier. He had clear blue eyes, and a rosy hue to his cheeks.

"Dr. Jones, this is my brother, Curtis Malmay," said Tim. "Where's… your partner?"

"Oh, he went to get some stuff we're going to need. Hello, Curtis," Martha said, standing up. "You can call me Martha. Would you like to shake hands?"

"Okay," Curtis said, tentatively offering his right hand to her, face down. Martha reached out, lightly squeezed his fingers, then let go.

To her surprise then, Curtis turned his back on her.

"Sorry," Tim said to Martha, taking his brother's arm. "One moment, please. Brotherly consult."

"Take your time," Martha said, as Tim stepped in front of his brother, and they began whispering to one another. She sat down, and attempted to put her attention on something else, but it was impossible not to hear some of the things they were saying.

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?" Tim asked his brother

Curtis muttered something.

"That doesn't mean she's not a fully qualified medical doctor," Tim said to him. "I watched her with my own eyes, taking care of people in town, people in shock because of what Valanon did, and…"

Curtis muttered something else.

"Well, fine, you don't have to trust her. But I do, and you trust me, right?" Tim said.

Curtis continued to mutter.

"Ugh, fine," Tim said, and he stepped out from behind his brother. "Curtis would like to know why you would allow a patient to call you Martha, rather than by your professional honorific. Things like this bother him."

Curtis turned around and faced her, with a suspicious look on his face.

Martha stood up, then made her way to the end of the sofa, and perched herself on the arm. "Well, because that's my name. I'm a person, you're a person. Just because I know a bit more about the human body, that doesn't mean we can't be equals. But it also doesn't mean that any professionalism has to be sacrificed. They're just words, in the end."

"Hear that?" Tim asked his brother.

"How long have you been practising medicine?" Curtis asked Martha.

"Curtis, stop it," Tim scolded.

"No, it's all right," Martha said. "I finished medical school a year and a half ago, but since then I've been working in the field with a military organisation that investigates strange phenomena, and I've been leading my own team. My experience has been short but intense, and trust me when I say, I know my stuff."

"Your organisation investigates strange phenomena?"

"Yes, we do."

"Am I a strange phenomenon?" Curtis asked, one hand on his hip now.

"That's what I'm here to find out," she told him, honestly. "Would it be so bad if you were?"

"That depends."

"Usually the strange phenomena in question are extraterrestrial," she told him. "Are you an alien?"

"There are theories that we all are."

"That's true. But, are you _human_?"

"I am."

"Well, that's perfect, then. I examine aliens sometimes, but more often, I patch up soldiers who get wounded doing weird things _with_ the aliens, or I treat humans who have been affected by aliens."

"I'm not any of those things."

"We actually don't know that yet, Curtis," she explained. "You see, my friend who was just here – you'll get to meet him soon – he's an expert in all things alien. And he thinks he knows how you've been able to create characters that manifest in real life. Based on some of the things he said, and knowing him as I do, chances are, something extraterrestrial is going on, and influencing you."

"Whoa!" Tim cut in. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Martha said. "Seriously."

"Am I being transformed?" Curtis asked.

"I don't know anything right now, I'm sorry. We're going to check you out, and find out what we need to know. But my friend needs to know that you're healthy before we can pull you in, and start investigating you as… erm, an alien-affected person. Because… Curtis, can I tell you a secret?"

"Erm, okay."

"My friend who's an expert in all things alien… is an alien."

"What?" Tim spat. "Dr. Jones, really, there's no need to patronise my brother, okay?"

"I'm not," she said to him, very earnestly.

"You're talking about your friend who was just here. The guy in the suit and the trainers?" Tim asked.

"Yes. He's not human. He's… well, it's a long story, but he's basically an alien operative who works with UNIT on stuff that's too weird even for them. That is, things they can't figure out."

"He looks totally human. Sounds totally human. Acts totally human!"

"Well, looks and sounds… yes. Acts? That remains to be seen," Martha commented. "Actually, you'd be surprised how many species in the universe walk upright like we do, and have the same basic form. Humanoid form is advantageous for survival on many, many planets. Evolution knows what it's doing."

"That's true," Curtis said, authoritatively.

"You've been… out there?" asked Tim, skeptically, pointing at the sky.

"I have," Martha confirmed. "With my friend."

"What you're discussing, Martha, is more fodder to support the theory that all humans are, in fact, non-native to this planet," Curtis said, again with his hand on his hip, and the other hand gesturing like a professor. "The inception of humanity might very well be extraterrestrial."

"Oh my God," Tim said. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"The reason I'm telling you guys this is, he wants to run some tests on you, Curtis, but he has to do it in his own laboratory, and to bring you there… well, you're going to see some things that might otherwise shock you. I thought I'd warn you now that he's not like the rest of us. Can you accept that?"

"Absolutely," Curtis said, very seriously. "I welcome the chance to do more research."

"If you're mucking us about…" Tim said.

"We're not. Look, Tim, I need you to stop acting all shocked and shaken. For your own good, okay? You came to us for help because you weren't sure what else to do, and because you saw us in action. We know more about how to take care of this type of rubbish than any one of those uniformed guys out there with guns – you worked that out for yourself. You've already seen drawings come to life. Did you really think working out the _how and why_ of it would be any less weird?"

"Okay," Curtis said, unzipping his hoodie. "I'm ready. Do I need to get down to my pants?"

"So you'll trust me to examine you?" she asked him.

"Yes. Because you've told me the truth, Martha, and I don't like liars."

"Seriously, Curtis? _This_ is why you'll trust her?" Tim asked, chuckling.

Martha ignored him. "Fantastic. Can you please sit up on the counter in the kitchen so I can test your reflexes?"

* * *

**Okay... Curtis is our "culprit."**

**Just FYI: I'm not a mental health professional, but I do work that has allowed me to be in contact with a myriad of different individuals with autism. Curtis is an amalgamation of all of them, in a way. I'm trying _desperately_ to handle him sensitively and realistically, while including him in a crazy sci-fi fanfic. His character will grow more, for better or for worse, and I'm hoping you grow to like him. :-)**

**As always, I appeal to the writer within you, and encourage you to write a review. You'll make my day!**


	5. Chapter 5

**The adventure with the super-talented Curtis Malmay continues! And thanks to Sheena for all your help!**

**And here's to getting a few answers, eh?**

* * *

FIVE

Ten minutes later, Martha heard the TARDIS' gears sounding faintly from outside.

By then, she had done some work with Curtis' reflexes, done a rudimentary assessment of his blood pressure, hearing, and vision. She had also inspected Curtis' medications, and had spoken to him about why he won't take them – at least not all the time. For the moment, she didn't try to encourage him to do so; she wasn't sure whether this would be conducive to what the Doctor wanted to do with him next.

"Okay, my friend is back," she said to Tim and Curtis. "Do you hear that sound?"

"That is the sound of an interdimensional vessel," Curtis said, listening closely.

"Yeah, sort of," Martha said. "Are you game for checking it out?"

"Yes, absolutely," Curtis replied.

"Sure," Tim sighed.

Martha grabbed Curtis' sketchbook on the way out the door, and the three of them left the flat. They made their way to the end of the block, then down the stairs, and the Doctor began walking toward them to meet them.

"Hello!" he called out boisterously. "You must be Curtis."

"I am," Curtis said, stopping in his tracks, and everyone stopped with him, though the Doctor continued to come toward them.

"I'm the Doctor. It's nice to meet you," said the Time Lord, genially.

Curtis looked at Martha. "He's the Doctor?"

"Yes…" Martha began to answer.

"You said he takes care of alien threats when it's too bizarre even for UNIT."

"That's right."

Curtis seemed to take a minute to process this. Then, he said, "No… the Doctor is a myth."

"Ah, you're a reader, Curtis," the Doctor said.

"Curt, mate, what're you talking about?" Tim wondered.

"The Doctor is a borderline god-like being from a supposedly long-destroyed planet, that has a great stake in _our_ planet, and works mostly in secret to save the human race from forces in the universe that would destroy it. Sometimes, it's said that he saves us from ourselves."

"I see," Tim said, clearly waiting for more info.

"Trouble is, no-one can seem to get a consistent fix on what he looks like, nor work out _why_ he does what he does, nor why he seems to speak perfect English," Curtis explained, once more with the professorial air, hand on hip. "No-one has been able to get a fix on where his 'planet' once was nor identify any debris that seems to come from it."

"Well, there are good reasons for all of those little anomalies," the Doctor said. "My face has changed nine times, my species is gifted with linguistic assimilation, my planet is trapped in a time-lock, and unfortunately, humans are sometimes too cynical to believe that anyone does anything just because it's the right thing, even if there's nothing to gain. Actually, it's not just humans."

"No, no," Curtis said, smiling. "Near as I can tell, _the Doctor_ is used as a _Deus ex machina_ explanation for resolutions to phenomena we can't explain. It's right there in his name: the healer. He's a lazy totem, another way for humans not to have to take responsibility. Like Jesus."

"Wow," the Doctor muttered, mostly to himself. "This is a bit humbling."

"I don't know what to say, guys…" Tim mused.

"So, you believe that humanity's inception might be extraterrestrial," Martha said. "You know an interdimensional vehicle when you hear it, and know about humanoid aliens from everywhere else… but you think the Doctor is a myth?"

"I'm a critical thinker, Martha," Curtis responded.

"Tell me, Curtis, what specific tidbits can you tell me about the Doctor?" the Doctor asked.

"You might as well ask me what specific tidbits I can tell you about Captain Kirk! Or Luke Skywalker!" Curtis answered.

"Humour me," said the Doctor, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, he travels throughout time and space in a teleporting police box. Convenient, right?"

"Not always, but go on."

"His police box utilises dimensional compression technology, which is not possible in this time and place. And he always seems to have an assistant."

"Companion," the Doctor corrected. "Martha has never been anyone's _assistant."_

Curtis shrugged. "Myth."

"Okay, erm… fine. You can call me John Smith," the Doctor said, turning toward where he'd parked the TARDIS. "Come forward, and step into my… er, teleporting police box. Any red flags with our patient, Dr. Jones?"

"Not that I can see," she answered, as they all followed the Doctor, on-the-move again. "Curtis is healthy in my book, though we'll certainly finish up the physical exam properly, with equipment and stuff."

"Right this way," the Doctor said grandly, gesturing toward the TARDIS.

He opened the door and Martha walked through it, followed by Curtis, then Tim, then the Doctor himself. He locked the door behind them, and waited for the reactions.

"Oh my God," Tim breathed, looking around. "This is impossible."

"It's…" Curtis began, and he looked around the console room, frowning with a kind of wonder. "It's dimensional compression technology, Tim, like I said. It's not impossible. Just _improbable."_

"How the hell would you know?" Tim shot back. It was the first hint of shortness they'd seen Tim show in the face of his brother's pedantry.

"Michio Kaku at Harvard has written about it. It's one of those things that they have in science fiction – like teleportation and time travel – and is actually theoretically possible, but not for thousands of years, when we reach certain understandings about the way the dimensions oscillate alongside each other." Curtis was still looking about the console room, as though he were suspicious of it.

"You're right," the Doctor conceded.

"I know," Curtis said, simply.

"So, if it's not possible for thousands of years," said Tim. "How is it happening here and now?"

Doctor said, walking past them both, up toward the console, "It's not possible on _this _planet for thousands of years, but my people reached the sort of understanding Curtis is talking about, well, aeons ago."

Tim swallowed hard, and visibly struggled to focus on something other than his own confusion, and total shift in how he perceived the universe.

"Listen, Curt, I'm with you one-hundred-and-ten per cent, all right mate?" Tim said to his brother. "But Doctor, why are we here?"

"There's no…" Curtis began.

"I know… no such thing as a-hundred-and-ten-per-cent," Tim chuckled. "Just sayin' I'm here for you."

"And there's no…" Curtis began again.

"No Doctor?" the Doctor asked. "Well, that's one way of looking at things. Frankly, at different times in my life, I've agreed with you. Anyway, would you please have a seat on the chair, there, so Dr. Jones can finish her examination?"

Martha followed Curtis and the Doctor up the ramp, and found a selection of medical supplies sitting on a small bit of the console that served as a catch-all tray, when one was needed. She checked him out properly with a stethoscope, sphygmomanometer, blood-sugar strips. The Doctor used an instrument that sent electrodes through him, measuring the health of his organs, and both of them declared him physically quite fit.

"All right," said the Doctor. "Curtis, this next thing is the sort of test that can't be done in a clinic, and it's why you're here."

"Okay," Curtis replied. "What is it a test of?"

"It's going to measure your brain activity," the Doctor explained. "Earth-based equipment can do _some_ of what my machine can do, but the problem is that human equipment looks for specific information. They ask questions like, _which neurons are firing?_ And, _which part of his brain wakes up when he thinks about eating cheese?_ Stuff like that. My machine can probe the electrical activity in and around your brain, find anomalies, and then just, you know… _tell us _what's going on."

Curtis looked up into the time rotor. "That's impossible. The human brain is far too complex."

"Ordinarily I'd agree with you on that point as well, but my machine is _really, really_ clever. Now, this should only take a couple of minutes," said the Doctor, fitting a strappy head-gear onto Curtis, that was connected to the inner-workings of the TARDIS by a cable. He tied it under the man's chin, then fastened two suction-cup-like readers at his temples. He then stood at the computer and stared, then adjusted some things, then stared some more. "There, that's done it – ready?"

He didn't wait for a response before a small whirring sound began – Martha likened it to the bathroom faucet running. It was hardly any noise at all. Curtis looked around the room like a bird, expectantly, as though wondering when something was going to happen.

When the noise stopped, there was a _ping,_ and the Doctor said, "Ooh, okay… I've got a result. Unfortunately, it's telling me to dig a little deeper."

"Dig?" asked Tim.

"Well, yeah. Metaphorically. Mostly," said the Doctor. "Now, I have to do a little more of what I thought might drive up his blood pressure and the like, that's why we needed to do the physical exam first. Martha, I've laid out some syringes full of saline on the console, in a plastic box."

"Yep, got 'em," she said.

The Doctor pressed a button or two on the console, and another instrument came out of the rafters. It looked like a megaphone.

"Curtis, how do you do with injections?" the Doctor asked.

"No better nor worse than anyone else," he said. "The human fear of pain is natural, as is the logic that the pain is momentary."

"Okay, well, Martha's going to inject you with saline, because the next test I'm going to do – not Earth-based – requires sodium as a conductor, for a type of sensor that's going to measure some of the frequencies and rhythms of your body."

Martha was now swabbing a spot on Curtis' arm with alcohol. "Okay with you both?"

"Erm, sure," Tim said.

"Frequencies and rhythms of my body? Are you discussing Chakras or some nonsense like that? _Doctor_?" Curtis asked.

"No," the Doctor replied. "As I said, it's not Earth-based. Someday, if you want me to explain it all, I will, but right now, we don't have time. It's completely safe, except it will probably drive up your blood pressure. Which you can afford."

"Fine," Curtis sighed.

Martha injected two syringefuls of saline, and then they all waited a minute for the solution to spread throughout his body.

"Okay, here we go," the Doctor muttered, aiming the megaphone-looking thing at him.

From the opening, fuzzy blue rings came forth and enveloped Curtis one by one, and each one seemed to dissipate and sink into his body.

"This is an odd sensation," Curtis said. "I can't account for it."

"That's all right, you don't need to," the Doctor said, taking readings on some sort of display on the apparatus he was using.

This went on for another minute, then, the Doctor eased off the trigger and said, "That's done it."

"It was odd, but didn't hurt," Curtis commented.

"You sound disappointed," the Doctor said, absently.

"I am, a bit," Curtis admitted, with a little smile.

"Not hurting is a good thing, mate," his brother assured him. "What did you want? An alien probe that burns off skin cells? Does a proctology exam?"

Martha, the Doctor, and even Tim chuckled at this. Curtis, however, was not amused. "Anal probing is another alien myth. Aliens don't actually do that."

"Well, _this_ alien doesn't," the Doctor commented, taking the original straps off Curtis' head. "And… Dr. Jones, we've got our answer."

"We do?" she asked, moving forward.

He pointed at some nonsensical data on the screen written in Gallifreyan and said, "Yep. It's right there. If I said the word _GABA_ to you, what would be your response?"

"Gamma-aminobutyric acid? It's a neurotransmitter in humans."

"Well, it's somewhat at the centre of the crisis, I'm afraid."

"Wait, no. Its connection with autism is speculative."

"Nope, a study proves it in 2015," he told her.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah!"

"Wait, what?" Tim asked. "What do you mean, 2015?"

"You're in a time machine," the Doctor told him absently.

"No, wh…"

"It's part of the _Doctor_ charade, Tim," Curtis told his brother, hand on hip.

To Martha, Tim said, "Sorry. Carry on. Can you please explain the GABA thing?"

"Apparently, autism is partially caused by the neurotransmitter called Gamma-aminobutyric acid, GABA for short, not firing quickly enough," Martha explained. "Its chief role is reducing excitability throughout the nervous system. When that excitability does not get quelled, you get behaviours that are supposedly typical of people with autism."

"Oh! Hey, I don't understand what that means, but it's nice to have answers of some sort," Tim said, sounding genuinely pleased.

"That's just human science," the Doctor said. "A few years ahead of your time, but it's something you'd have eventually known for yourself, if you'd kept up on the literature."

"I try," Tim shrugged. "We both do."

"Here's the weird part, the part where you're going to be glad you have me," the Doctor said. "Neurotransmitters fire at a frequency. His GABA activity is oscillating just perfectly, just at _precisely _the right frequency as to be in synch with the Ifasma comet that careened past the Earth about a week ago."

"Ifasma?" Martha asked. "Was that the invisible thing… the streak of heat and gas that no-one saw, but made all of UNIT's sensors go completely bonkers?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "Ifasma is the galaxy of origin of that particular piece of space junk. In that galaxy, all of the inhabitants, on all of the planets, are connected on that particular frequency – same as Curtis now – and that unifying force gives all of its individuals the power to manipulate reality, on a localised basis."

"Localised reality manipulation?" Curtis asked. "On a quantum level? It's literally connecting me with building-blocks of the universe?"

"You've got it," the Doctor told him. "It's all very… Buddhist. Rather beautiful. Though, problematic, because now we've got _beings _in this world that shouldn't be here, not to mention a fire-breathing dragon asleep on the roof of a museum."

Tim asked his brother, "How did you do this? Did you just _wish _them into being, and now they're… being?"

"I would have no control of what goes on at the quantum level, Tim," Curtis answered, now on his feet, looking a bit panicked.

"Is that true, Doctor?" Tim asked.

"I'm afraid so."

"Which means…" Tim began

"… that he can't just _stop_ doing it," the Doctor finished. He looked at Curtis sadly. "Anything that comes out of your brain, especially onto paper in great detail, with colour and text and whatnot, runs the risk of becoming something very corporeal, that could harm someone."

"It's not my fault!" Curtis protested, voice rising.

"I know. But, I'm sorry, you're going to have to keep a very tight lid on your thoughts, until we get this resolved. Something of Ifasma is bleeding through your mind, and manifesting in reality… that can't stand. If nothing else, we don't know whether it's going to cause damage to your brain."

Cutis began to pace back and forth in the console room. His steps hit the metal grate heavily, and it made a sound Martha had only ever heard the floor make when the TARDIS was being seriously jostled.

"Damage to my brain, damage to my brain," Curtis said as he walked. "My brain is already sort of fucked up. It's who I am. Can't change that. Can't change that!"

"That's not true…" Tim said.

"But we'd know by now, we'd know by now, wouldn't we?" Curtis asked. "I'd be feeling slow, or depressed or…"

"Not necessarily," the Doctor corrected. "The damage could very well occur over a period of time, especially if this _phenomenon_ remains unchecked."

"Well, maybe my brain is more flexible than others'," Curtis offered, still pacing, his voice becoming breathless.

"That could be," the Doctor conceded. "In fact, it most probably _is_ more flexible. But you're still human, Curtis. The human brain isn't meant to conduct alien influences, or bleed with reality-manipulating frequencies and energies. It's just not. I have a friend who learned that very recently, in almost the hardest way possible. We _need _to protect you."

"And," Martha chimed in. "Listen, Curtis, even if your brain could withstand all of that, it doesn't solve the initial problem, which is, how do we keep you from producing drawings that come to life and wreak havoc upon the world?"

Curtis began to cry. It was a distressed, deep, breathy, stifled sob, that broke the heart of everyone in the room.

"Curtis, mate…" Tim began to walk toward his brother. "It's all right."

"Did Valanon really hurt someone?" asked Curtis through sobs, stopping to let his brother comfort him. "I mean, besides the lion?"

"Yes, he did, Curtis," Tim said. "Someone tried to come forward and get him to stand down peaceably, and he got his arm slashed. Almost cut off. There was blood everywhere."

Curtis looked at Martha. "Femoral artery?"

Martha nodded to confirm.

"Oh my God," Curtis groaned, and his sobs came forth again, this time in quick spurts.

"And Xanthavia might have done the same, if the Doctor hadn't had the finesse he does, and if she hadn't been sketched as an intelligent, peace-seeker," Tim said. "It was lucky that her character was created more complete than the others, or we'd have double the problem, possibly a lot more carnage."

"He's not the Doctor, there's no such person," Curtis protested, even through his distress. "Are they contained? Valanon and Xanthavia?"

"Yes," Martha said. "Valanon is in jail for now. But it took three Scotland Yard agents with electrical prods and tasers to bring him down, and another four to get him out of there. And Xanthavia is…"

"Erm, she's just down that hall there, locked in a bedroom with a Game Boy," the Doctor said, sheepishly. "I also gave her some of Donna's clothes that she left, but somehow I don't think she'll get the hint."

"The dragon?" Curtis asked.

"Well, as far as I know it hasn't hurt anyone yet," Martha said. "But only because UNIT were able to get it contained (sort of), and then sedated. Though, it did look like the roof of the Leeds City Museum will need a million pounds' worth of repairs."

"And Curt, it can't stay there forever. Eventually it's going to get free, and then… who knows what?" Tim pointed out.

"Oh my God, oh my God," Curtis continued to groan, and now he paced again, totally unheeding of his brother trying to stop him. "What do I do? What do I do? I can't quit drawing, I can't quit drawing…"

"Well, maybe you can just draw rabbits in fields, and… strawberries, or something like that," Tim offered.

"I can't do that! I'm an artist! I create! I can't just _tell_ my brain what to conjure up!"

"You're going to have to think of _something_," Tim scolded. "You're going to have to try, because this… like the Doctor said, it can't stand."

"There's…"

"No such person, I know, let it go!" Tim said, rolling his eyes. "Okay, how about this. You create characters, but first, you write the paragraph to sketch out their personality. And you never create mindlessly violent entities. That'll tide us over until our friends here work out another solution."

"I don't know the character's personality until I meet them," Curtis told him. "You know that."

"Again, Curt, you're going to have to try for us."

"I can't!"

"You can!"

"I can't!" Curtis screamed. "I can't! I can't! I'm an artist! I can't contain it! I just can't!"

* * *

**Thanks for reading, friends! If you're reading, following, etc. it's only fair to leave a review. ;-) Make me smile!**


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

Back in the Malmays' lounge, sitting on the old tartan sofa, the Doctor and Martha were both leaning back, basically staring at the ceiling. Both had thoughts running ten-thousand miles-per-hour through their minds, and their hearts were pounding.

"Been through anything like that before?" he asked her, barely moving his lips.

"Yes," she answered. "And it never gets any easier."

They were referring to the "meltdown" that Curtis experienced, right there in the console room. It had begun with pacing back and forth, panicking and repeating himself, then a few mild tears. Eventually, he was speed-walking all the way round the console over and over, yelling, crying. He was terrified of brain damage, and also of this newfound _talent_ he seemed to have, for making his own drawings manifest. He didn't want anyone else hurt, but he also didn't think he could live without drawing and creating. He didn't think anyone understood his artistic process (which might have been true). Eventually, he graduated to throwing things that he could find on the console, which were various medical instruments, an egg timer, and a box of biscuits. The Doctor had rushed over to remove the hammers from the scene before Curtis could get to them.

It all culminated when Curtis ran down the ramp, and tried to get out of the TARDIS. In his upset, he could not see that the door was simply locked, and he pulled at the handle, pounded on the wood…

The Doctor and Tim tried to wrest him physically away from the door, while Martha ran down the hall to the infirmary. When she returned a minute-and-a-half later, she had a syringe.

"Tim, this is a mild sedative," she said. "I think you said you'd used something like this before, in these instances? It'll give you about five minutes to get him settled somewhere before he falls asleep."

"Do it," said the harried brother. "I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself. And I don't need people from the estate seeing him like this."

The Doctor pulled back on the shoulder of Curtis' unzipped hoodie, and pushed it down his arm. This exposed an inch or two of flesh unencumbered by fabric. The Doctor pressed with all of his strength on Curtis to keep the arm steady, and Martha plunged the needle in, emptying the sedative.

In another ninety seconds, Curtis was leaning back against the railing, crying softly. "I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do," he repeated.

"Let's get you upstairs, mate," Tim said, and he took his brother's arm, and all four of them went back to their flat upstairs.

Now, Tim was tucking his brother in, as it were, and the Doctor and Martha were waiting for him to emerge, so they could discuss their next steps.

"Do you suppose perhaps others like him are going through this as well?" Martha asked, still staring at the ceiling.

"What? The meltdowns? Yes, definitely," the Doctor responded.

"No, this drawing manifestation thing."

"Ehhhh, probably not," he said. "The neurotransmitter would have to be firing at _precisely_ the same speed and frequency, down to the femtosecond. They'd have to live more or less in the area – Britain, that is – and they'd have to be able to draw as well as Curtis."

Martha nodded, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. "Well, we've got the dragon, and the guy who created it, sedated for now. What do we do next?"

That was when Tim reappeared, trudging back down the hallway into where the Doctor and Martha were seated.

"I bloody hate when that happens," Tim sighed, taking a seat cross-legged on the floor across the coffee table from them. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"That's all right," Martha said. "It's part of what we do."

"You know, Tim," the Doctor said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped together. "There's a simple solution to all this."

"Medication, I know," Tim said. "Not as simple as you might think."

"It would cause his GABA neurotransmitter to fire more quickly, which would allow him _not_ to be on-frequency with the oscillations in the Ifasma Galaxy."

"But he won't take them," Martha said.

"Nope," Tim agreed.

"Not even in _these_ circumstances?" the Doctor asked. "Not even to save his brain from acting as a conductor to an alien energy field? Not even to ensure that no-one else gets hurt because of something he created?"

"I haven't asked him again," Tim said. "But my guess would be _no._ Sometimes, he's hyper-rational, to a fault. Sometimes he's totally _ir_rational. And you saw how he reacted back there when he thought that his ability to create art was threatened. He says the medication makes him _not himself_. He says that who he is, is an autistic person, and he likes that person, quirks and all. And, it allows him to think freely."

"That's… actually, quite admirable," the Doctor sighed, sitting back on the sofa again, now resting one ankle on the opposite knee.

"Don't get me wrong," Tim added. "It's not like he's _never_ taken them. When he was a little kid, he took them because, I think, maybe it didn't occur to him that he could say _no._ Even in the last five years, he's taken them off and on… he'll go two or three weeks, but then he'll start saying that he feels like a zombie, and then its six months or a year before he'll do it again."

"Maybe we could add something to the mix so that he doesn't feel like a zombie," Martha offered.

"Maybe, but if he's going to do it, it will have to be of his own accord, not anyone else's. Our mother hired an in-home healthcare worker-slash-tutor for a time when Curtis and I were in high school," Tim explained, softly. "But even with all three of us holding him down, it didn't work. He'd kick, he'd scream, he'd vomit. He fractured one of my ribs once, and I said I would never try to force him again. Partly because I didn't want to be injured, but also because it was a wake-up call, that made me realise that he's right. He loves himself and, well… so do I. So why would I try _that _hard to get drugs into him, that make him stop behaving like the person I love?"

"But for him to function…" the Doctor began.

"I know," Tim said. "He _could_ live a much more 'normal' existence, with relationships and contributions to society and everything. Some days, I just can't stop myself from trying to _talk_ him into taking the drugs, for his own sake. But using force… no, never again."

"Agreed," said the Doctor. "We would never use force either."

"But does that mean that you'll continue to try and _talk_ with him about it?" Martha asked.

Tim sighed. "I'll try. Because I can see what might happen to him and this town if he doesn't agree to it."

"Do you think he'd listen to _us_?" she wondered.

Tim chuckled. "You, maybe. He says he doesn't trust _the Doctor._"

"Well, you can hardly blame him," the Doctor said. "I don't trust myths either. Erm…listen, I hate to ask this, but Tim, what would happen if we tried putting it in his food?"

"He'd know," Tim answered, wearily. "That has been tried. He always knows."

"Can he create the things he wants to create, if he takes the meds?" the Doctor asked.

"I don't know," Tim shrugged.

"It seems to me that _that _is one of the reasons why he doesn't want to take them," Martha told the Doctor. "He's _not himself._"

Feeling cornered, the Doctor groaned and ran one hand through his hair, and pulled. Then he shook it off, and said, "Okay, so… he may or may not ever come round to taking his meds. I don't think we should give up on that just yet, but it's pretty clear that we'll have to solve this problem in some other way, at least temporarily. Because, if nothing else, Martha and I still have to deal with a dragon currently asleep on the roof of the Leeds City Museum, which won't be asleep forever."

"Right, and we don't even know what's it's actually made of, do we?" Martha offered, thinking of what the Doctor had said about the lion's blood. "If it's artificial, and not of this dimension or any other…"

The Doctor nodded, "It might be a while. Meantime, if Curtis wakes up, can you keep him from drawing anything ferocious? I mean, I know he said before that he's an artist and can't contain it when he has to create, but…"

"I'll either keep his supplies away from him, or encourage him to draw benign things. Puppies and flowers," Tim agreed.

"Thank you," the Doctor said to him. "It's not forever, I promise."

* * *

The sun was just now setting on Leeds, but Tim Malmay was already exhausted, and understandably so. When the Doctor and Martha left, he was headed to his room to catch some sleep while he could, but he agreed to keep his mobile phone nearby, so he could be reached.

"Ugh, poor Curtis," Martha groaned as they walked down the stairs, out to the courtyard of the estate.

"Poor both of them," the Doctor sighed.

"Yeah," she whispered. Then, she pulled her mobile phone from her pocket, and dialled a number. "Sergeant Everdeen? It's Dr. Jones."

"Oi! Where'd you get off to?" the Sergeant practically shouted. Then he remembered himself. "Ma'am."

"I'm with the Doctor," she said. "We've found the origin of the phenomenon – the reason why there's a dragon and a couple of D&D warriors knocking about, but… well, we aren't sure how to deal with it, especially without causing more damage, both to property and to a human life."

"Wicked!" the Sergeant breathed. "What's the origin?"

"I'll explain everything later," she said. "For now, I'm just calling to find out how much time we've got left with the dragon sedatives."

"Oh, erm… hang on," said Everdeen. There were muffled voices for half a minute or so, and Martha could definitely hear the crisp tones of a military man chastising a subordinate. Meanwhile, the Doctor unlocked the TARDIS and they both walked in. When Everdeen came back, he said, "Where are you?"

She paused. "Who wants to know?"

Everdeen paused as well. "Lieutenant Adkins," he admitted reluctantly.

"He answers to Mace."

"Yep."

"If Colonel Mace wants to know what's going on with me, he can call me himself," Martha spat.

"Colonel Mace is not here," the Sergeant reported. "It's Adkins calling the shots, for the moment."

"Why does Adkins think he has anything to say about what I'm doing, who I'm with, where I am, or how much I know?"

"He's… an assertive officer, that much is certain," said Everdeen. Martha knew that this was code for _yeah, I know, __he's a wanker,_ but the man himself was standing nearby, so Everdeen had euphemised.

"Now, please tell me how much, and what type of sedative, was given to the dragon," Martha requested.

He sighed. "Adkins ordered me to trade your whereabouts for that info."

"Yeah, I worked that out already. But that's not going to happen, because I know this organisation and I know how it thinks. They – we – do a lot of good, Sergeant, but don't for a moment let that lot convince you that UNIT is the first, or last, line of defence against weird phenomena on this planet, alien or not."

Everdeen said, "I don't. I mean, I'm not… I mean…"

"I know what will happen if we tell you where we are. UNIT will storm in, and try to take over what I'm doing, what the Doctor is doing."

"Hold on," said Everdeen. After that, Martha heard more muffled voices. Then, "Lieutenant Adkins says that the Doctor does not outrank Colonel Mace."

Martha laughed. "Oh, yes he does."

"Dr. Jones…"

"I don't know what they've been whispering in your ear, but if they're using you to test my loyalty, or using me to test yours, well… at least where I'm concerned, I guess they have their answer about where my loyalties lie," she said, calmly. "Now, the Doctor and I will work out the dragon dilemma eventually, but it will take longer, and there will be more property damage and injuries if you don't help me."

Everdeen engaged in more muffled speaking. "The information you're requesting is, apparently, classified, accessible only to those in cooperation with UNIT."

Martha sighed, and said to the Doctor, "_The information we're requesting is classified, accessible only to those in cooperation with UNIT._ So, what do you say? Feel like cooperating?"

"Nope. Not if it means fifty soldiers trundle in here and start talking about jurisdiction and efficiency and politics and rubbish like that."

Into the phone, she said, "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah," Everdeen sighed. There was a long pause, then he whispered. "Three hours. I heard someone say they've got about three hours left before the thing wakes fully up."

"So it'll begin to stir in about two-and-a-half hours," she muttered.

"Don't tell anyone I told you without your giving up anything. Please."

"Thanks," she said, curtly. She cut off the call then, because she didn't want to concede anything to the Sergeant, or anyone else at UNIT just now. But she had no intention of selling Everdeen out.

"So, we've got a hundred and fifty minutes before we have to think about sedating the dragon again? I don't fancy that idea," the Doctor said.

"Me neither."

"I mean, it is a living creature. I think."

"Right, and if we don't _have_ to pump it full of drugs for a second time, then we shouldn't."

"We'll call it plan B," he decided. "Or C or D."

"Well, should we reexamine the lion blood, to find out more about its composition? Maybe it will jog some obscure Doctorly knowledge, and you'll know how to get rid of it in a humane, non-kill, sort of way."

"Not a bad idea," he said. "Probably should take a few samples from Xanthavia, too, like we were planning on doing before Tim came a-knocking."

"Oh! I'd forgotten she was here! Do you reckon she's hungry?"

"Does she even need to eat?"

"I don't want to find out by starving her."

"No. Okay, Xanthavia first, then dragon."

* * *

**Thanks, once again, to Sheena for beta-ing. I tried, I really did!**

**Thanks ALL OF YOU for reading! Hope to hear from you in review-form... :-D**


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

The TARDIS, of course, had a fully-equipped, fully-socked kitchen (well, it had fully-equipped everything), so that's where the heroes went, having decided to throw together a meal for the bizarre, artificial woman currently locked in one of the TARDIS' spare bedrooms with a Game Boy.

"So, what do you think our good friend Xanthavia would like to eat?" the Doctor asked, boisterously throwing on the kitchen light and then opening the fridge.

"Well, I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest she's probably not a vegetarian," Martha shrugged, sitting down upon one of the barstools.

"Ham and Swiss it is," the Doctor said, pulling packets of lunch meat and holey white cheese from a drawer in the fridge, and tossing it up on the counter. Before tossing them, though he examined them, realising that these were the last few slices of their kind. "Though, I guess I'd better do a shop soon."

Martha watched the Doctor's hands intently (though she wasn't sure why) as he spread mustard on a square of rye bread, laid pre-cut slices of ham and cheese over it, followed by a second piece of bread, then cut it into two triangle halves. He then rummaged in the refrigerator again, and emerged with an apple, which he cut into slices and laid on the plate beside the sandwich.

"That looks good," she mused.

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it?" he agreed, filling a tumbler with some water. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Breakfast," she said.

"Me too. I think," he said. "Well, if you wouldn't mind providing our friend with some room-service, I will make _us_ something to nosh on. No more ham and cheese to work with, but I'll think of something."

"Where is she?" Martha asked, hopping off the barstool.

"In the fourth bedroom off the console room," he told her. Then he reached in his pocket and extracted the sonic screwdriver, holding it out to her. "You're going to need this to get in."

She balanced the plate on top of the cup, and took the sonic with her free hand. Then she turned and left the kitchen.

* * *

Xanthavia was, as it turned out, quite hungry.

For the first time since Martha had seen her talked down from the clock tower, she actually threw aside the Game Boy. She sat on the edge of the bed with the food in her lap, and ate heartily.

"Want some company?" Martha asked her, feeling a little weird about giving her food, then locking her back in a room.

"Why?" asked Xanthavia, through a mouthful of ham and Swiss.

"Just… you know… you've been alone all day."

"So?"

"Right. Well, are you doing okay? Would you like something to read, or something else to do?"

"I like my game."

"Yes, I've noticed," Martha said. She looked at the wall beside the door, and saw a panel of buttons, and a speaker. She knew that all of the TARDIS' bedrooms had a working intercom system to communicate with other bedrooms, the console room, the common rooms, and the sonic screwdriver. She had never used it, but had been told that it was functional. "Look, if you want or need anything, just press this button here, okay? If we don't hear you straight away, just keep trying."

"Yep," said the strange woman, putting a whole slice of apple in her mouth.

Martha left, and shut the door behind her. She reckoned the Doctor would want her to secure the lock with the sonic, so she did. But the whole thing still felt bizarre.

"We've got a prisoner in the TARDIS," she muttered, re-entering the kitchen.

"Not the first time, won't be the last," the Doctor said, breaking a handful of dry spaghetti in half. From there, he dropped it in a pan of boiling water. "Not that I'm keen on it, mind you. And not that she's an actual prisoner… you know this is just until we work out what else we can do with her. What is she? Could she be trained to, say, work in the City Museum at the info kiosque, get her own flat, and have a life? Should she live near the Malmays so they can keep an eye on her? Would the Malmays even want that? How long will she live? Is she a danger? I just don't know."

"Yeah, speaking of _what is she_," Martha said. "I regret to inform you, she was ravenously hungry."

"Damn," he sighed, adjusting the heat on the stove. "We waited too long to think of her, didn't we?"

"Well, maybe, but that's not what I mean, Doctor. I mean, if she's hungry, it means she's _real_, in a sense, doesn't it? It means that she can't just be _vanquished_ with no drama. It means she probably won't just fade away, in her artificiality. It means she feels pain, discomfort, and needs, at least somewhat, to interact with the world and whatnot. Doesn't it?"

"Yes, it probably does," he agreed.

Martha's mobile rang again in her pocket. "Ugh… Colonel Mace," she groaned, setting the phone on the counter.

"You should probably answer it," the Doctor said. "What if the dragon's waking up or something?"

She sighed, picked up the phone, and said, "This is Dr. Jones."

"This is Colonel Mace," said the uptight, gravelly voice on the other end of the call. "Where are you?"

"I'm with the Doctor," she said. "That's all you're getting from me right now, Colonel. I thought I'd made that clear to Lieutenant Adkins."

"You had," he said. "Obviously you must know I've spoken to Adkins in the last few minutes, and he's spoken to Everdeen, who's spoken to you."

"Uh-huh. Where are you going with this?"

"I've been briefed on what was said in that conversation, Dr. Jones, and I'm calling to remind you and the Doctor of something important," Colonel Mace said to her, in a tone that she found a bit authoritarian.

It was a little odd to have Mace speak to her as a subordinate. But ultimately, Mace was _always_ formal and more businesslike than was strictly normal, so the change was actually not all that noticeable. And also, as she had indicated to Everdeen/Adkins, her fist loyalty in these matters was _not_ to Colonel Mace, nor anyone at UNIT.

"All right, hang on," Martha said, and she pressed a button on the side of the phone, and laid it back down on the counter. "You're on speakerphone, Colonel Mace. The Doctor can hear you. Go ahead."

Colonel Mace cleared his throat nervously, and it was then that Martha realised that he could have phoned the Time Lord's "personal" phone if he'd wanted to, in order to _remind him of something important,_ but he hadn't, because he wasn't keen on chastising the Doctor directly. He'd tried to have Adkins bring them in, and that hadn't worked. Now, he wanted to deliver a militant and temperamental message through Martha, and that wasn't working either.

So Colonel Mace was on the back foot, and she kind of liked that.

"Erm, hello, Doctor," he said. "How are things?"

"Bonkers," the Doctor answered. "How are things with you?"

"Well, that's what I'm calling about," Mace said, even more shortly than usual. "My men and women in Leeds are basically just standing about, at this stage, metaphorically twiddling their thumbs. We've got a dragon that's not going to stay sedated forever, a man who cut off a lion's head in the shaky custody of Scotland Yard, and Whitehall calling every five minutes threatening us."

"So you're telling me to get a shift on," the Doctor said, flatly, bending down to pull a metal colander from a cabinet.

"Well, we did include you in this matter in order to _take care of_ the threat. From what I've heard from my sources, Doctor, your current _modus operandi_ is more of a… well, an intellectual approach."

The Doctor laughed. "To paraphrase: you called me in to _vanquish_ the phenomenon, not to find out its origins and handle it in a sensitive manner. So you'd like me to stop being a bloody hippie, and torch the dragon already."

"No, I didn't say that, Doctor," Mace protested. "You must understand…"

"You'd like it over with so you can finish your paperwork and everyone can get on with their lives, eh?"

"Doctor…"

"Okay, fine, fine fine," the Doctor said, quickly, whilst stirring the pasta. "Martha would you mind stirring?"

She took his place at the stove, and he pulled a container of grated parmesan cheese, a pint of heavy cream, and a stick of butter from the fridge, and placed it on the counter.

"Tell me, Colonel Mace," the Doctor said. "What exactly is Whitehall threatening you with?"

"They're giving us two hours to get all traces of today's incidents removed from public view, before they start sending in lawyers and special forces. From there will follow politicians and PR people, and worst of all, the press."

"Okay," the Doctor sighed. "You said you've got two hours? Get me four."

"What?" Colonel Mace practically shouted through the phone. "How the deuce am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know," the Doctor said. "Blackmail?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, how should I know? you're the Colonel. You're practically a politician yourself. Schmooze. Convince. Be a manipulative bastard… whatever you've got to do. I need until midnight."

"To do what?"

"Well, first of all, neither Martha nor I have eaten anything since breakfast, so we're in the middle of scaring up some sustenance, so your Chief Medical Officer doesn't keel over in the middle of things," the Doctor replied. "I find that someone who's passed out from hunger is much less effective in a crisis situation, don't you?

"And second of all, there is a point of origin for all of this rubbish that's happening – the dragon, the lion, all of it. To get the phenomenon tamed, as it were, is going to require some finesse. Some thinking. Some sensitivity. And UNIT, sorry to say, would just make things worse. I'm not calling you lot incompetent, mind you, I'm saying, this situation is micro, and you lot tend to act macro. I will let you know the minute you can help. But for now, I'm going to need Whitehall to _stand the hell down,_ I'm going to need that dragon to stay asleep, and I'm counting on _you_ to make it happen."

"Doctor, you are not authorised to issue orders!"

"Actually, that wasn't an order. All I said is what I'd need, and that I'm counting on you to get it done. But if you don't like it, I'll gladly back off now, if you've got any better ideas. I'll leave the warrior princess from the clock tower on your doorstep and walk away, shall I?"

There was silence.

"I'll ring you back when if and when I get some extra time," the Colonel said. "But Doctor, understand that if you misstep, the responsibility…"

"Yeah, yeah, if I cock it up, it's on your head. I know. I won't let that happen, as long as you lot stay out of it for now. Deal?"

Colonel Mace agreed, then ended the call in a bit of a huff.

"I hate to say it, but we probably _should_ get a shift on," Martha suggested, testing the pasta. From there, she picked up the pan very carefully and carried it over to the sink, emptying the contents into the colander.

"Yeah, we should," he sighed. "But can I just say… I'm exhausted."

"Me too," she said, stepping away from the sink.

He bounced the pasta in the colander, and drained off as much water as possible, before returning the cooked pasta to the original pot. "Would that be actual _tiredness_, or would that be UNIT-fatigue?"

"Bit of both," she admitted. "But mostly the second thing."

He nodded. Over the next few minutes, as they talked, he added a stick of butter, then eyeballed how much parmesan and heavy cream to add to the pasta.

"I hear you. I mean… I don't mind helping. And I honestly don't mind helping people who are, frankly, idiots. But UNIT… they're not idiots. They just have idiotic protocol, that keeps everything compartmentalised, and the left hand doesn't understand what the right hand is doing."

"Is that why you keep your operation on a skeleton crew?" she asked, smiling lightly.

"My operation? Heh. Well, yeah, more or less," he said. "In the old days, once, I had three people travelling with me, all from different planets, all with a different agenda, all with different cultural mores, personalities, methods, et cetera, et cetera. It was hard for me to get a word in edgeways, and very often, communication was a problem. Just me, and one other person – this is how it tends to work best."

"And when will that be working again?" she asked him, with genuine concern in her voice. She was referring to the fact that Donna was out of the picture, but when she'd been lucid, she'd known better than anyone that the Doctor needs _someone_. And she was absolutely correct.

He pulled some garlic powder, salt, and black pepper from a small cupboard to his right, added a few dashes of each, and said, "I don't know. Sounds like _you'll_ be looking for a job soon."

This startled her a bit, and she reacted thusly.

"Oh! Erm…"

"No, no, never mind," he said. "Pasta. No spots."

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Let's have pasta, and not put anyone on the spot. Yeah? We'll eat fairly quickly, then, we'll deal with Curtis and his wacky gang of artificial creatures. Sound good?"

"Yes," she said, feeling relieved, though she wasn't sure why.

"After that, we'll talk about, you know, whatever comes up."

She nodded. "Okay."

"So… quickie pasta alfredo?" he asked, brandishing a pasta scooper. "And maybe half an apple?"

* * *

**Not the most exciting chapter, but important, I think. Down time is crucial, as are the emotional lives of our characters. :-)**

**Leave a review, and make my day! Thank you for reading!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Oh boy, progress on this story has slowed down! This week, I had computer trouble, and had to borrow a Chromebook from work. Wasn't going to do any actual WRITING on that thing (for a number of reasons) so had to wait. Sigh. FWPs, amirite? Not to mention, I've been working on another fic as well... **

**Anyway, the Doctor made dinner, and Martha just had a run-in with Colonel Mace. Thanks very much to Sheena for betaing this chapter. I'm hoping that, like her, you're saying "Oh shit!" at the end of it! ;-) Enjoy!**

****Disclaimer: I don't entirely remember what Youtube was like in 2009, or even if it was very different at all, so... be kind. **

* * *

EIGHT

Martha and the Doctor sat in the TARDIS' kitchen at the breakfast counter, and ate pasta, _not_ talking about the fact that Martha was probably going to bow out of UNIT quite soon, and the Doctor was in need of a travelling partner. Martha was _not_ mentioning the fact that she left him for a reason, and that reason hadn't significantly changed, as far as she could tell. And the Doctor was _not_ discussing the fact that so very much had changed…

They were _not_ talking about their own lives at the moment, but rather, discussing psychopharmaceuticals, and possibly how Curtis might be persuaded to take one of them.

"The thing is," Martha was saying, spinning some pasta onto her fork. "Two of the drugs in Curtis' current cocktail are antidepressants. You have to deal with the mental illnesses that exacerbate the autism and make the symptoms harder to live with... can't really _treat _autism itself. And _a lot_ of people on antidepressants report feeling like zombies. Including my sister."

"Right, yeah..." the Doctor mused. He seemed to think about what she had said, then reported, "I don't know what to do with that information."

"Yeah…" she said, and they both stared off into space for a few moments.

Because, they both knew full well that one could not isolate treatment of the neurotransmitter GABA issue without throwing all of his brain chemistry out-of-whack, and likely needing to add other drugs to the mix anyway. They also knew that if Curtis was reluctant to take something that would quell depression, he was very unlikely to take anything more potent that would quell his artistic, autistic, or other, qualities.

They had been discussing different aspects of it hypothetically, both hoping that a happy medium could be found for Curtis. But, it was starting to look like "treating" the drawings-coming-to-life phenomenon with drugs was an all-or-nothing situation. Either he would take them, or he wouldn't, and they had to operate under the assumption that he wouldn't.

"If only there were a way to tweak that neurotransmitter just a tad," the Doctor mused. "Not as much as a drug would do, not so fast that he's all boring like everybody else and loses his _self, _you know? _But just enough_ to throw him off the frequency, so he can stop being a conductor for a reality-manipulating energy. But I don't know how to do it without brain surgery, or doing something psychically invasive with the TARDIS. Which would only have a fifty-fifty chance of working, but an eighty-twenty chance of freaking him out. And a… ehhhh, twenty-eighty chance of causing the same kind of damage we're trying to avoid from the Ifasma galaxy. So yeah… good, Doctor. Just keep monologuing. Very helpful."

It was daunting, for sure. Something that would suppress a person's true nature could not be good, nor sustainable. And anything that had the possibility of hedging a major talent like his, was definitely worth considering other alternatives.

Just as they were finishing, Martha's mobile rang again.

"Oh, God, what now?" she muttered, assuming that Colonel Mace was calling back, she hoped with a time extension on Whitehall's threats. But it was not Colonel Mace at all, or anyone from UNIT. She chuckled, and answered the phone with, "Hi Tish."

"Martha!" her sister practically screamed through the phone. "Have you seen YouTube?"

"What, like… ever? Yes," Martha said.

"No, I mean today! Featured videos! Look!"

"I don't have time for this, Tish," Martha protested. "I'll call you tomorrow. I'm… _embroiled_ in something."

"Are you in Leeds?" Tish asked, aggressively.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Look at the featured videos on YouTube, Martha."

"Okay, well…" Martha began, but her sister had already cut her off.

"What was that?" asked the Doctor.

"She wants me to check out the featured videos on YouTube," Martha answered. "She didn't tell me why. But she _did_ know I was in Leeds."

"Uh-oh," the Doctor said. "If she's seeing Leeds on YouTube, and knows you're here, then…"

"Uh-oh," she groaned. Then she looked forlornly down into her half-empty bowl of pasta. "Well, I guess dinner is over."

"Come on," he said softly, getting up from his chair and leading her out of the kitchen and down the hall, back to the console room. He pressed a bunch of buttons near the monitor, and the screen switched to a benign Google homepage. He typed in the necessary URL, and there it was YouTube, with featured videos at the top.

The very first video on the left was clearly of Leeds Town Hall, and a woman who appeared to be climbing it. The title of the video was "What's Happened To Xena?"

"Bloody fantastic," Martha breathed. "Well, on the up-side, it doesn't give Whitehall a chance to leak it."

The Doctor clicked on the video, and the footage began to play. The cameraperson had been about fifty yards to the left of where Martha had been standing at the time, and the angle of the action was quite different.

And there was Xanthavia, climbing the clock tower, letting out a battle cry that seemed like complete nonsense, every now and then. This went on for about thirty seconds, and then a voice came in, a male voice. "Who the hell is she? Who _does_ shit like this?"

The camerawoman then answered, "I dunno. What is she supposed to be? Xena Warrior Princess? She's probably just a cosplayer, and she's _on _something."

After watching Xanthavia for another minute or so, the man said, "I don't think she's just a cosplayer or a junkie or whatever. Look at her… she's pissed off. That's proper indignation on her face, that. She's either an activist, or this is performance art."

"Her outfit is, like, a D&D player's wet dream," said the woman. Martha chuckled, because Sergeant Everdeen had said the exact same thing. "What's she activisting about? The right to wear gold spandex?"

"It's got to be ironic," said the man. "Don't you think?"

"Ha ha," said the woman, flatly, sarcastically, at the song reference. "But… well, yeah, maybe. It's like she's doing it on purpose… the outfit doesn't even fit her right. She's spilling out the top."

"Exactly," he said. "It's like she's wearing it ironically, intentionally presenting herself as wank fodder, screaming loud, carrying the swords, it's all part of a package, a statement… I'm telling you. Activist."

"Her outfit could be poking fun at the misogynistic mores of our culture. So exaggerated as to be ridiculous. And yet, she's got the weaponry… as though her sexuality and her ability to fight both make her strong."

"Wow, they're really thinking this through," the Doctor muttered.

"They do," the man on the video decided. "Those are both powerful possessions of hers, that she can use to her advantage or not, hers to wield, and no-one can have her, nor protect her. Wow… what a profound feminist statem… wait, what's that?"

"What?"

"That, off to the left."

The camera panned over, and the Doctor groaned, "Oh, no," because he knew what was about to happen.

The video then revealed the TARDIS having materialised on the roof, across the roof from Xanthavia.

Martha had seen this before. The Doctor emerged, and approached the "activist" on the tower.

"Who is that?" the man on the video asked.

"How the fuck should I know?" the woman said. "A man. That's all I can tell you. I bet he thinks he can bring her down. Cue masculine wiles, stereotyping feminine sensibilities."

"Well, maybe he's a shrink, and he's worried she'll throw herself off," the guy said.

"Maybe," the woman agreed.

And they waited.

Of course, what the Doctor and Xanthavia were saying could not be heard, but within a minute or two, the redheaded fantasy figure was climbing down, and the Doctor was ushering her into the TARDIS.

"What the fuck?" the woman's voice said, three syllables splatted across the visual, harsh and angry. "Why did she go with him? What the hell… I mean, he's putting her in a box? Who does he think he… oh, shit, and now he's getting in there with her!"

Martha's hands went to her mouth. "Oh God…" she sighed.

"Seriously, seriously. Why _did_ she go?" the man's voice said. "What the hell did he say to her? Who does he work for? Is he government? Is he one of these military wonks? And what…"

Then, the TARDIS on the video began to dematerialise.

"Oh, hell no!" the woman's voice called out. "That did _not_ just happen!"

The camera jostled so much at that point that it was hard to continue watching. They could hear the crowd around, and could tell that the camerawoman and her friend were moving through the throng.

After another minute, they heard her say, "Hold this."

Now, apparently, the man had the camera, and was filming a woman with messy blonde braids. She was, they each separately, internally guessed, in her early twenties.

"So, basically, we just saw a feminist activist finessed, kidnapped, secreted away by an unknown man, probably an operative of some sort of authoritarian agency… and if he isn't, then why aren't the authorities all-bloody-over him? She was placed in a box, which has since disappeared. I, for one, demand to know what's happened to her! Who is suppressing her voice? What bastion of the patriarchy is keeping her under wraps now? I demand to know who she is, who _he _is, what he's doing to her, where they've gone, and whether she's safe! Who's with me?"

At the end, the woman was shouting. And then the video ended.

Martha grabbed the "mouse" control and began scrolling through the comments below. A handful of them were calling the woman a nutter (either the one with the blonde braids, or Xanthavia), but the majority revealed that the "cause" was supported by many, and had the potential to pick up a hell of a lot of steam.

"Great," Martha spat. "So now _you're_ the villain in this little drama?"

"It's happened to me before, in the absence of any other obvious villain," the Doctor sighed. "Although, in this case, these people don't even know what the _real_ drama actually is."

"Leave it to humans," she said, bitterly.

"I didn't want to say anything, but…"

"What's this?" Martha asked, pointing to a thumbnail of another video, called, 'Man held without representation,' under a column of videos labelled as _Related._

The Doctor clicked on it.

This time, the person on camera was a black man. He came across as a university student – articulate, indignant, passionate, with a slightly posh accent.

"I'm standing here, in front of the police department in Leeds," he said, gesturing to the red brick building behind him. It looked like quite a crowd had gathered there. "For those of you who aren't aware, a man was arrested today and brought here, charged with GBH, cruelty to animals, and a list of other, smaller charges. And while it is true that he does appear to have used a kind of _sword_ to lash out at a man, he did this under extreme duress. He was being pressed by a crowd, and subsequently, he was surrounded on all sides by military personnel, threatened with automatic weapons, and ultimately arrested by Scotland Yard, who brought him down with a series of electrical shocks. He is now being held in this building, a provisional facility until the Yard has the proper equipment to bring a dangerous criminal back to their HQ in London.

"Before that, witnesses are saying that he beheaded a lion," the man continued. Then he laughed. "Let me say that again. They say he beheaded. A. Lion. Can you imagine that? Does that sound, in any way, feasible? The man is large, yes, he's ripped, yes… built like a brick wall – I mean, have you seen this guy? But to wrestle, and then decapitate a wild animal, a four-hundred-pound _predator_, whose only instinct is survival, who has claws and fangs, all designed to rip out your throat? Come on, people! Who are you bloody kidding?

"Clearly, the animal-cruelty bit is a trumped-up charge that I would like to say cannot have any hope of sticking, but given the number of quote-unquote _witnesses_ who've been paid to tell this lion story, I have no certainty that the truth will ever be revealed. Obviously, I don't know where the lion's head and body came from – they are no doubt a prop. He _did, _admittedly, attack a man and cause life-threatening injuries, that had to be dealt-with on the scene by medics. But the reason I'm making this video is this: I was there when he was arrested. I was there when he was being threatened. I was there when an unknown other man appeared on the scene and tried to talk the gun-happy military human-drones down from their high horse, and did not succeed because the Yard trundled in and ruined everything. And you know what I noticed? The man, the one who was shocked and manhandled and arrested and charged, is _non-communicative._ He defended himself only physically, and any bodily noises he made were grunts, cries… first of frustration and fear, then of pain. He did not speak… in any language. Not in English, certainly, but _no words_ formed on his lips. Given what he was put through, any human being capable of rational thought and speech would surely have protested, fought back with words, tried to explain himself.

"And this tells me that he is either not capable of rational thought, or he is not capable of speech. And that means he has special needs, that _must _be addressed by Scotland Yard, and any and all authorities or law-enforcement that come in contact with him. All defendants need representation, and especially when they are mentally challenged. We have not seen anyone except uniformed officers and other agents from Scotland Yard enter the building, and when last we called, we could not confirm that the man has any kind of advocacy at this stage.

"This is a travesty of justice. This is _illegal_. Obviously, the man committed a crime, but I daresay it was in a kind of self-defence, and that he was not capable of understanding the consequences of his actions, or possibly even the value of a human life. Just as he is not capable of understanding what is currently happening to him.

"People of Britain, I want you to see what your government is doing. This sort of thing happens every day, and only through hands-on investigation and advocacy can we make any changes. Phone your MP now! Give a voice to the non-communicative prisoner being held by _your_ Scotland Yard, as yet indefinitely! Through this one man, we can begin to exact change and justice and compassion for all those who go through our so-called _system_ without any recourse!"

And, as expected, when Martha scrolled down into the comments section, it confirmed that plenty of people in Britain (and other places) were on-board with this, and were planning (at least on paper) to phone their MP and advocate for the man with special needs, imprisoned in Leeds.

"Interesting interpretation of events," the Doctor commented.

"Interesting? How about destructive?"

"I'm trying to remain positive, because it's only going to get worse."

"Well, that's obvious, looking at what people are saying in the comments."

"I don't mean just that," the Doctor sighed. He cued the video back to a certain point, when, in the background, there seemed to be some commotion – not enough to disrupt what the man on the video was saying, but it was noticeable. And at that time, the camera had been jostled by the commotion, just a little, and had veered off to the left, momentarily. The Doctor paused it there, and then used special features of the TARDIS to zoom in on something in the background, and clarify it. "I mean this."

"_Justice for Aslan?_" Martha asked, reading what was on the screen. It was a sign in the distance, held by a protester.

"Yep."

"So… they want the man punished harshly for killing the lion, who, apparently, they've dubbed Aslan? A god-like figure?"

"Yep."

"And now they're going to scuffle with the human-rights advocates who want Valanon shown compassion, and don't believe the lion thing is even real."

"Yep."

"Plus, there's a bunch of feminists in the mix, who are now possibly looking _for you_ and think you're holding Xanthavia as a sex slave or something."

"Well… wow, that hadn't occurred to me, but… yeah, probably."

"And we should probably batten down the hatches for whatever human indignation comes from sedating the dragon, and also the scientific community that will want to study it, and the clash that will come on that front."

"Yep."

"Wow. This makes dealing with UNIT seem like a picnic."

"Yep."

* * *

**All right folks... ramping up for a clash! I hope I can live up to it... *slight panic***

**Reviews have been quiet. If you're out there, I'd love to hear from you! Thanks for reading, friends. :-)**


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm a little nervous about this chapter. I think it's exciting, but perhaps a little ridiculous... looking forward to hearing what y'all think.**

**Also, there's a tiny nod to "Good Omens" here, which is my new favorite fandom. Very tiny.**

**Anyway, at the end of chapter 8, there was a gross misinterpretation of events from a multitude of points of view, some misuse of Youtube, and a bit of clashing was expected...**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

NINE

The Doctor stood inside the TARDIS door, waiting for his companion and an artificial woman conjured by the unique brain-chemistry of a very talented autistic man.

When they came round the corner, Xanthavia was wearing a pair of brown straight-legged jeans, and a flowy pink flowered top that gathered just under the bust. On her feet were a pair of white athletic trainers, and the strands of hair around her face had been pulled back and pinned, and the rest lay loose across her shoulders. She also had on a pair of gold hoop earrings, and just a spot of makeup.

The clothes and earrings had belonged to Donna. The hair and makeup were Martha's work.

"Okay, she looks good," the Doctor said, assessing Xanthavia, who then looked down at her own ensemble and shrugged. "Normal."

Martha now assessed the Doctor. "And you? Sunglasses? Really? It's almost ten p.m."

"Too much?"

"A bit. Do you want to be incognito, or not?"

He was as disguised as he basically ever got, short of putting on his pyjamas and bathrobe to walk about in public. He had changed into brown trousers (since he'd been wearing a blue suit when he'd been caught on film coaxing Xanthavia into his "box"), and instead of his usual suit jacket, he now wore a maroon t-shirt, with a light blue dress shirt over it the sleeves rolled up and no tie. Since he was conscious of the fact that his hair was one of the most recognisable things about him (he did that on purpose, of course), he now wore a baseball hat on his head, and… sunglasses.

He shoved the shades into one pocket, and produced his regular (unneeded) reading glasses out of the other pocket. He put them on. "Better?"

"Yeah. Much less conspicuous."

The TARDIS was now parked just around the corner from the police station in Leeds, which was being swarmed by at least two separate mobs of angry people, but probably more. Before, they'd had two complicated jobs: 1) working out how to stop Curtis Malmay manifesting his drawings as reality, and 2) working out what to do with the living beings he'd manifested… 'cause at least two of them definitely couldn't stay here.

Now they had a new complicated job: quelling the fearful, angry shouts of activists, protesters, concerned citizens, Youtubers, attention-getters, etc. who had caught a whiff of injustice when Xanthavia had disappeared with the Doctor, and Valanon had been arrested. They were now dealing with feminist groups, animal rights activists, advocates for individuals with special needs, at least. And who knew what else?

"All right," the Doctor said, as they stepped outside. "Remember what you're supposed to say?"

"Yes," Xanthavia said, with tedium in her voice. "I'm not a simpleton."

"No, you're not," he agreed. Inside he was thinking, _no, but you do lack a certain finesse, and knowledge of cultural norms, _but he did not voice it. In short, he was afraid she wouldn't be a good enough liar/actress to actually diffuse the situation, and might, in fact, make it worse… but neither he nor Martha had any better ideas that didn't require days and days of waiting and planning... time which they could not afford.

He and Martha exchanged a meaningful, worried moment of eye-contact. He saw fear in her, and vice versa.

"Do you remember your new name?" Martha asked her.

"Yes," she said. "It's Zana Curtis."

"Right. It's just a disguise," Martha reminded her. "We're not actually changing your name. But if the people outside are going to calm down, and peace is going to be made for the moment, they will want to know your full name."

Xanthavia nodded.

Martha had already explained to her that this entire charade was actually in the name of keeping the peace, and sometimes, in this culture, weapons are figurative. That is, weapons are more often the dissemination of information, rather than actual metal tools that cause bodily injury. And, when people need to be strongarmed into laying down their "weapons," especially at a local level, something called "PR" and/or "damage control" had to be dealt with. Xanthavia didn't fully understand the implications or mechanics of all this, but she was a peacekeeper - Curtis Malmay had designed her that way. So. she was very interested in helping. She had agreed to don Donna's clothing, and allow Martha to make her over a bit, just so she'd look less like a satirical sex kitten when she faced the public. She had agreed to memorise a short speech about her place in the grand scheme of today.

The idea was to show her to the outraged throng outside the police station, so people could see her looking (and hopefully _acting_) like an average person, who was not being held against her will. She could be presented as an activist, a voice for the down-trodden, which wouldn't be entirely inaccurate. She could be said to have been demonstrating this morning, and by coming to the police station to assist a caretaker for the non-communicative warrior, demonstrating again. The trick was getting Xanthavia to put a twenty-first century spin on things, and neither the Doctor nor Martha had confidence that she could pull it off.

But, the hope was that seeing her would diffuse some suspicion of human-rights violation against her, and possibly, by extension, Valanon. But Valanon was a separate entity, with a separate set of controversies surrounding him, and Martha recognised that his situation needed to be handled with finesse, as well.

_What they want more than anything (most of them, anyway) is to make sure that the unknown lion-decapitating warrior, who cannot communicate, is being looked-after. I can look after him._

And it wasn't a bluff. She had the credentials, the experience and the know-how. All they had to do now was get past the mob.

It was all very nebulous and could fall like a house of cards at any moment, but...

"It's all we've got," the Doctor shrugged. "We need _these people _out of the way before we can sort out Curtis and the weirdness surrounding him... frankly before we bring more people into the mix, who might need advocates, who might be exploited... or before that perception is allowed to proliferate. Exploding stars are one thing - that plays right into my wheelhouse. A mob-mentality with exploding soapboxes is another kind of insanity. It's unpredictable, and very difficult to manipulate in short order, without using very dodgy means... like mind control."

"This isn't mind-control," Martha reminded him.

"No," he agreed. "Mind-control would have a much better shot at working."

"Than dressing up She-Ra in Barbie's wardrobe? Yep - I believe it," Martha said, chuckling bitterly.

The three of them left the TARDIS, walked toward the police station, and the two women went around the corner, as the Doctor went the other direction, hung back across the street, to watch the action.

Martha and Xanthavia slid between the crowd and the building, moving toward the staircase that climbed up the front of the building, just beside the main entrance. They made their way up to the first landing, where there were several people already loitering. Martha flashed her UNIT badge at them, and asked them to step away from the railing, while she and Xanthavia took their place. Martha began waving her arms, and shouting for attention, and slowly, people began to realise that someone was speaking to them. Silence and curiosity spread throughout the crowd until, it seemed all eyes were on them.

Spotlights were suddenly in their eyes, betraying the fact that there were definitely television cameras and journalists in the mix.

"Go ahead," Martha encouraged, stepping back.

Xanthavia took a deep breath, and said, loudly, "Good evening. My name is Zana Curtis. You might recognise me as the woman who, earlier today, climbed the clock tower of the City Hall."

A titter spread through the crowd.

Xanthavia continued, "I am here to put to rest any speculation that I am being held against my will. As you can see, I am here, and I will assure you that I am here of my own volition. I am not being forced to do anything, nor _have I _been forced to do anything today. I was _asked _to stand down from the roof of City Hall this morning, and now I have been _asked _to say a few words, to dispel your fears. As it happens, I agreed to do both."

"Ms. Curtis, are you an activist?" a voice called from the back of the crowd. Martha recognised the tone of a journalist.

"I am an activist," Xanthavia confirmed. The Doctor had anticipated this question (and others), and he and Martha had tried to give her tools for answering… to the extent they could. "I am a feminist…"

"Are you also a performance artist?" asked someone else.

"Erm…" she said, looking at Martha for help.

"Who's the man who coaxed you into the box?"

"_Asked," _Xanthavia corrected. "Not coaxed."

"Who's your friend?" asked yet another voice.

Martha stepped forward. "I'm Martha Jones of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. I have been working closely with my organisation, and also with an independent consultant, on this situation, in addition to the situation involving the non-communicative man who was arrested earlier today."

"Are you military, or a lawyer?" asked a journalist voice.

"I'm more military than lawyer, but I'm neither," she answered. "I'm a doctor."

"Do you have training in dealing with individuals with special needs?"

"Yes, of course," she answered. "I'm planning to try and have the man transferred into my care."

"Care of the military?" people asked.

"Going to which hospital?"

"Will you treat him for some type of schizophrenia?"

"He doesn't need more guns, he needs an advocate! Now!"

A man standing on the ground just below them managed to whistle loud enough to quiet the crowd, then motioned to Martha to go ahead.

"Because of jurisdictional uncertainties, we have not yet been able to find the man an advocate," Martha told the crowd, basically improvising. A year of working for the government had taught her a lot about making up bureaucratic bullshit. "UNIT were dealing with the problem, but Scotland Yard overtook the scene without full approval from Whitehall, and now he's in the care of local police, overseen by Scotland Yard... or not - we don't know. We feel that the best place for him is in the care of a physician, and that's where I come in. I will be doing this independently of UNIT, so he will not be in military custody."

"He belongs in custody!" someone from farther away yelled out. "He murdered an innocent creature!"

"What about Aslan?"

"Human rights come before animal rights!" retorted someone from the other side.

"He didn't know what he was doing - the man has special needs!"

"A beautiful animal is dead because of him!"

"He needs to pay - or someone does!"

"Right! Who allowed the lion loose upon the city?"

"Who's to blame for the death, really?"

The man down front whistled again. He was a large man, commanding and impossible to miss. He waved his arms, and managed to recapture a large chunk of the crowd.

With a loud, booming voice, he yelled, "Blaming someone will not help the man, it will not bring the lion back, and it will not solve anything at this stage!"

The crowd murmured at this.

"Ms. Curtis, what do you do for a living?" a journalist asked, taking advantage of the relative quiet.

"I er..." she began, stopping then to look at Martha for help once more.

"They want to know what you do," Martha told her, quietly. "What your job is. Now..."

But before Martha could come up with something for her to say, Xanthavia answered on her own. "I'm a peacekeeper," she said proudly.

"So you're law-enforcement?" the journalist asked.

"No, I'm a warrior," she said.

"Erm, Zana..." Martha began.

"Are you with the Peace Corps?" asked another journalist. "Is that what you were doing this morning?"

"No... this morning I was in search of Valanon, and tried to get a better vantage-point from above the city, on the roof of the City Hall," she said.

Martha was decidedly nervous now that she was speaking as, and for, herself, but was not sure how to stop her.

"What's Valanon?" asked a reporter. "Is that a peacekeeping ideal? A feminist ideal?"

"It's the..."

Martha cut her off. "Valanon is the idea that each person, in his or her individuality, can make a difference. Each life has value. Equal value. This is feminist ideal, as well as an ideal shared by all of the individual groups here!"

"No, it's not," Xanthavia said to her. "That is not what Valanon is."

"Go with it," Martha whispered to her. "Please."

Xanthavia turned back to the crowd, and mechanically repeated what Martha had just said, even with the same accent and inflection. If she could have spat out Martha's actual voice, she would have done.

There was an eerie silence. Then, another journalist's voice: "Ms. Curtis, who is pulling your strings?"'

"My strings? I don't understand," Xanthavia said. "Are you referring to my hair? I think samples were taken..."

"Samples of your hair were taken?" the journalist asked. "By whom?"

"And for what purpose?" asked another.

"By Martha," said Xanthavia. "And her associate."

"Hold on, wait," Martha interrupted. "Zan..."

"Was this with your consent?" a reporter wondered, ploughing through Martha's effort.

"I don't know what _consent _means_," _Xanthavia admitted, which sent Martha's very blood running cold.

"Who is her associate? Was that the man in the blue suit?"

"How did this happen?"

"What else happened because you don't know what _consent _means?"

Xanthavia and Martha both began to speak, competing for attention, in whatever space between shouts they could find. After a moment, someone said, "Oi! You lot! Shut up! She's trying to speak!"

"I was in a room, occupied with the game I'd been given, and Martha took some of my hair," she said.

"Xanthavia, you have to stop," Martha warned softly, trying not to sound too menacing.

"What game had you been given?"

"One with blocks... fitting blocks together," Xanthavia said.

The crowd was in an uproar now, and did not hear when Martha tried to clarify that it was _Tetris_, just to entertain her for a while, and not some sort of psych experiment.

The man down front now turned his back, and began recording a video of himself on his phone, saying something about how it's "been confirmed" that the activist Zana Curtis has been "held in a room," and "experimented on," and it was all "without her consent."

Others in the crowd were clamoring for more information, and Martha could see the throng pushing forward. She grabbed Xanthavia and pulled her up the stairs, hoping against hope there was a door at the top. There was, but from the looks of it, the possibility of it being unlocked was a longshot. She tried it once, and it was locked, but within a second, she heard a click, and tried again. It was unlocked now, and Martha assumed it was the Doctor with the sonic, aiming from across the street.

She and Xanthavia stumbled into the building, and found themselves in what looked like bleak, white and grey hallway of an office building.

"Shit, this is a disaster," Martha said, her hand against her forehead, leaning back against the door.

"Did I not do a good enough job?" Xanthavia asked. It was the first bit of real worry or vulnerability Martha had seen her display. She noted that her failure to bring peace to the situation was the reason for the woman's concern, and it gave Martha a swell of affection for her.

Martha patted her on the shoulder. "You did everything that could have been expected of you," she said.

* * *

**Well, it appears plan A kinda failed. Now what?**

**Gettin' crickets from you guys. Once again, I say, if you're out there, let me know it! It's a huge boost for me, and actually does keep me going!**

**Thank you so much for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Okay, I know the Doctor/Martha's plan in the previous chapter seemed reckless, but they knew that. I think the point was, it was all they could think of, with the limited time/energy/resources they had and/or were willing to devote to this. The bigger issue still lies with Curtis, and his new superpower. This socio-political stuff is debris they have to wade through so they can actually problem-solve.**

**So, the Doctor has been standing across the street, watching the scene play out in front of the police station...**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

TEN

Cursing under his breath, the Doctor walked back around the corner hurriedly, and headed for the TARDIS.

"Well, it was a long-shot, I guess," he said to himself, referring to the debacle of Martha and Xanthavia in front of the press. He supposed Xanthavia did as well as could have been expected. He had just _so_ been hoping for a quick end to _this_ end of the conflict, so he could deal with the very _existence_ of Xanthavia, not to mention Valanon, and the sleeping dragon.

When he entered the TARDIS, he was thinking on what to do next. Obviously, the first order of business was to get Martha and Xanthavia out of that police station safely, and then…

…the phone rang.

The Doctor located Martha's old mobile amongst the bits and bobs on the console, did not recognise the number, and gave a frustrated groan, figuring it was just UNIT, calling to light another fire under him.

"Hello?" he said, sounding very, very weary.

"Doctor?" said the voice. "It's Tim. Tim, er, Malmay. We met earlier today."

"Yes, of course!" the Doctor said, almost dismissively. "How are things?"

"Well…" Tim said with a nervous chuckle. "Curtis is awake. And when that's true, there's never a dull moment."

"I see. Anything I can do?"

"He says he has the urge to draw."

"Oh. Oh, God! Tim, can you keep him from drawing anything else?"

"No, I really can't. But! He says he wants Martha to tell him what to draw."

"He wants Martha to _tell him_?"

"Yeah. He doesn't want to create anything new that will cause problems unless and until you and Martha work out whether they actually _are _problems. But he isn't sure what, if not people or animals, to create."

"Okay, erm… how about a strawberry patch growing on the median of a street nearby?"

"It needs to come from Martha," Tim sighed.

"Tell him Martha said it."

"He wants to talk to her."

"She's not available just now," the Doctor told Tim. "She's not even here. Have you not seen the news?"

"No, why?"

The Doctor gave Tim the abridged version of the socio-political unrest currently happening in Leeds, with various warring factions, concerning the characters that Curtis created, and why Martha was currently somewhat trapped inside the police building, along with Xanthavia.

"In fact, I've got to go in there and get them… nowish!" he said to Tim.

"Oh, wow… can we help?"

"I'm not sure yet," said the Doctor. "Just try the strawberry suggestion, say it was Martha's, but she can't come to the phone."

"Okay but… my brother can always tell when I'm lying to him."

"I don't know what else to tell, you, Tim," the Doctor said. "I'll have her phone you and Curtis as soon as she can. Meanwhile, will you tell your brother _well done_ for realising that he should be drawing anything that doesn't cause… ripples in… the universe…"

The Doctor's voice began trailing off, and eventually Tim asked, "Erm, okay. It sort of sounds like you have more to say, but…"

"I just got an idea," the Doctor said, wistfully.

"For what?"

"Listen, suggest drawing cats in a cemetery in Paris. Ants in a farm underground in the middle of a field. But soon, I'll have a commission for Curtis that could solve this whole thing! I just have to think it through…"

"Er, okay. I think he'll like that cat idea. Stay in touch, yeah?"

"Definitely, Tim," said the Doctor, emphatically. "But right now, I need my friend back! Talk later!"

And with that, he shut the phone, and threw it back on the console.

* * *

Martha and Xanthavia stood in a corridor on the second floor of the police headquarters. The latter still leaned, a bit shellshocked, against the door, while the former paced.

Around them were a myriad of different offices, each jammed with paperwork, file boxes, photos and other evidence of families at home. Martha reckoned this was probably where higher-ranking officers did the "desk" part of their jobs. There was no-one about, that they could see… well, on a day like today, with chaos abounding, no police personnel were parked behind a desk on the second floor.

"Okay, how do we get out of here?" Martha was asking herself (and Xanthavia, if she cared to weigh in). "They'll be looking for us. They're going to want to know we're safe, or at least that _you_ are, which is nice, because at least they're not out for our blood. But if we leave the building and are seen, it'll just be a repeat performance of a minute ago, and they'll just want the Doctor's blood. We could wait it out, but that doesn't help because… well, it could be a long time, especially if the protesters are hoping to see you again. It'll be a stalemate! Oh, very clever, Martha."

"We could fight our way out," Xanthavia suggested.

"No, we can't," Martha snapped.

"I thought you'd say that," Xanthavia said, pouting.

"Although, if we're going to go through the crowd, we could ask for a police escort…"

And that was when she heard it: the gears, the grinding. She also felt the wind out of nowhere, and saw the blue box appearing right there in the corridor.

"Or a police _box_ escort," she mused.

The Doctor stuck his head out, once the TARDIS was fully materialised, looked at her and smiled. "Hey! My aim is getting better!"

"Your aim was never that bad."

"Meh, you didn't know me in the old days." He stepped out and looked around. "I wonder if this is the first time my police box has ever been in an actual police setting."

"No idea," Martha said. Then she turned the red-haired woman still leaning her back against the door. "Okay… into the TARDIS. Let's go!"

"Not yet," the Doctor said. "I've had an epiphany."

"Which means?"

"Which means, first things first, we're _actually_ going to try and get Valanon transferred to your custody, and if we have to, we can use UNIT's cred."

"All right, I suppose we could give it a go. Any particular reason?"

"Because I've got a spaceship, a time machine, and access to a man who can manipulate reality!" he said, locating the stairs quickly, and descending with Martha and Xanthavia trailing after.

With this information, an epiphany of sorts was now dawning on Martha, as well. At the moment, it was just a glimmer of realisation or understanding...

They arrived downstairs, and wound their way through a few more corridors to what seemed to be the main lobby. Officers were standing guard across the front windows, and the protesters outside were shouting at them from time to time. But mostly, their presence blocked the throng's view inside, so no-one seemed to notice the Time Lord, his Companion, and the artificial woman who had just arrived.

"Where the hell did you three come from?" asked a senior officer from behind the front desk. He was built like a brick wall, had a northern accent one could cut with a knife, and his nametag said PS Pitkin.

The Doctor ignored his question, and proceeded with other information the officer had not asked for.

"Hi there, I'm the Doctor, and these are my associates, Dr. Martha Jones, and Zana Curtis," he said. "We've been given authorisation to take the non-communicative prisoner off your hands."

"Authorisation by whom?" asked the bulky officer.

"Whitehall," the Doctor vamped. "Via the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. Dr. Jones?"

Martha showed her UNIT ID at the same time as the Doctor flashed the psychic paper.

"Whitehall, you say? Shouldn't we have had a call from the Yard?" asked a second, somewhat senior, officer. His nametag said Stevens.

"They haven't been in touch yet?" the Doctor asked. "They will be momentarily, I'm sure. Meanwhile, I'm sure you won't mind if we take a looksee at the suspect?"

"Er, not until we receive our call," said Pitkin.

"PS Pitkin," the Doctor began, shoving his hands in his pockets, and moving closer to the desk. "We are offering to take a very troublesome prisoner off your hands. Look at that crowd out there. Why not be able to tell them it's out of your control now? Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Number one, Doctor," Pitkin said. "I will not defy the Yard's orders. Did that once – it was a bloody mess. Number two, what do you think will happen when you take him out of here? Will it _calm_ the chaos, d'you reckon, or _add to _it?"

The Doctor smiled. "What if we find alternative ways to get him out of here, so the crowd doesn't see?"

"How you gonna do that, teleportation?"

"Well…"

"The answer is no," Pitkin insisted. "Not until we receive a call, and we hear it from the horse's mouth.

"PS Pitkin?" a third voice said, from deeper behind the front desk. It was a woman this time, and when she came forward, they read her nametag as Horan. She was just now hanging up the phone.

"What is it?" Pitkin asked her.

"We've received a bomb threat," she said, handing him a slip of paper.

"Oh, bloody hell," he groaned. "It's AFAM."

"AFAM? What's that?" the Doctor asked.

"Acting For Animal Masters. Or Mastery – I can't remember," Martha answered. "They're an animal rights group, who believe that animals are superior to humans because their desires are unselfish and they're not destroying the planet."

"No comment," the Doctor said.

"But they seem to fully embrace their inferiority, because like total bloody barbarians, they use death threats and bombs and thugs in masks to get their point across," PS Pitkin added. "Well, blimey. This is all we needed. PC Horan, what do they want?"

"They say they want to see the warrior punished," Horan answered. "They want video proof by 2 am, or they say the whole building will blow, with him in it."

Xanthavia piped up now. "I can punish him," she said. "It's my job. It's what I was…"

"No, Zana, that's not how we do things," the Doctor said, giving her a meaningful stare that he hoped she would interpret the way a _human_ would, which was _shut up._ Martha took her hand and squeezed. He turned his attention back to Pitkin. "They don't care about, oh I don't know, due process? Charging him, having him stand trial, et cetera, et cetera?"

"What do you want from me?" Pitkin asked, arms spread out to his sides. "They believe a sewer rat is more worth saving than the Prime Minister. Ain't no accounting for them, Doctor."

"How credible is the threat?"

"Dunno. Grab a couple of PCs to look into it ASAP, would you, Horan? Meanwhile, you three," Pitkin said to the officers standing in front of the windows. "Start trying to get the crowd to evacuate."

The Doctor asked, "Has this AFAM group ever followed through with a death threat, or a bomb scare?"

"Yeah… not that often, but yeah. Can someone find out when the last one was?" he called out to the room. To the Doctor, Martha, and Xanthavia, he said, "And you three… I need you gone."

"PS Pitkin…" the Doctor began.

But he was interrupted by a red flash, bolting through the lobby.

It took everyone in the room a few seconds to realise that Xanthavia had made a break for the door labelled "holding."

She had kicked two PCs out of the way, and was through the door before the Doctor was was the first to move. He went after her, and disappeared through the door. Martha collided with PS Stevens trying to get to the door.

"Everyone, stay put!" she heard Pitkin shout at the room, just before he, too, came through the door.

The door led down a short hallway, and to a staircase that, from here, went only down.

The stairs led to a large, open basement space, well-lit, and partitioned by bars. On the closer end, there were a few others in holding who seemed like fairly standard fodder. On the other end, there was a man who looked like a He-Man action figure. He was on his feet and snarling, at the mere sight of Xanthavia.

She reached his cell, and threw herself at the bars, giving some sort of deafening battle cry, that caused the others in holding to protest, cover their ears, and try to get as far away from it as possible.

To everyone's surprise, the bars gave way a bit.

That was when the Doctor stopped in his tracks and held out his arms, so that neither Martha, nor either of the police sergeants would pass him. No-one protested, at least for the moment.

The four of them watched, stunned.

She screamed his name. "Valanon! Valanon! Murderer!" and threw herself at the bars again, bending them very slightly.

"Oh my God," one of the sergeants said.

Valanon now did likewise in response, growling and throwing himself at the bars. With Xanthavia's head-start, the screws bolting the bars to the floor and ceiling gave way slightly.

"What do we do?" PS Pitkin asked.

"Oh, _now _you want my help?" the Doctor asked.

"Do you think the three of us can take her?" the PS wondered.

"Excuse me, three?" Martha asked. "There are actually four of us here, Police Sergeant Pitkin!"

"Indeed," said the Doctor. "And no, I don't think the four of us can take her. Especially not with Valanon in the mix."

"Is that _seriously_ his name?" asked Stevens.

"Yeah," the Doctor told him. "It's a long story."

Xanthavia and Valanon took turns throwing themselves at the bars, and in the end, it was the former who caused the entire front panel to topple onto the latter. He growled as he stomped his way out from underneath, and then lunged at her.

From there, an almighty scuffle ensued, encompassing the entire space available. The two adversaries charged at each other, tackled each other, screamed at each other. There was rolling, biting, kicking, punching, breaking things. Xanthavia had absolutely no trouble holding her own with the giant man – the Doctor and Martha could both see that she'd been created, basically, with supernatural strength, as had Valanon.

Valanon picked her up over his head, and slammed her onto the bars on the floor. It looked excruciating, but Xanthavia stood up, took a running start and kicked the lion-killer in the face, hard enough to cause him to stumble backward into the wall, where she got in a couple of quality punches. He punched back, and put her into retreat, until she slid underneath him and used her extraordinary thighs to twist him to his knees and bring him down.

All the while, two police sergeants, a UNIT physician, a Time Lord, and a motley crew of "everyday" law-breakers stood and watched in total shock and awe. Although, in the case of one of the policemen, he wasn't _just_ standing and watching, however no-one noticed until later.

"How do we stop them?" Martha finally shouted.

"I don't think we can," the Doctor said. "I'd say, the important thing is to contain them. We do everything we can not to let this rubbish spill outside, if it comes to that."

But it didn't really come to that. This same manner of combat went on for another few minutes, and it was like watching a CGI-produced battle. The characters were inhumanly strong, and even the Doctor and Martha couldn't quite believe what they were seeing.

In the end, Xanthavia was able to bring Valanon to his knees again, and she leapt onto his back, put her arms around his neck, and began to squeeze. And squeeze.

Valanon's arms could not quite find purchase enough to grab her, and when he did try to grasp her arm, she simply resisted. Their strength was well-matched, but their intelligence was not.

It took about thirty horrifying seconds for Valanon to choke out, and when he did, he fell like a great beast onto the floor. Xanthavia got to her feet, and stood over his supine form like a true fantasy heroine.

"Someone bring me a weapon," she said. "He must die."

"Er, no. Once again, Zana, we don't do things that way," the Doctor reminded her. He moved forward and grabbed the woman's hand, and made to pull her back in the direction of where the rest of them were standing. He was about to begin machine-gunning brainstorms as to the next order of operations, but instead he spied PS Stevens punching buttons on his Smartphone, and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Saving the video, mate," said Stevens.

"Saving the video? You were filming that whole thing?"

"Hell yes! It was gold!"

"Saving it for what?"

"I dunno."

"YouTube?"

Stevens shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe I'll just show it to my mates later."

"Give me that!" the Doctor spat, now moving toward the sergeant, and ripping the apparatus out of his hand. "What's the matter with you? Don't you know what happens when you stoke a fire? It gets bigger!"

PS Pitkin was now looking at his colleague with a bit of surprise and disgust, which gave the Doctor hope.

"So… TARDIS?" Martha asked. "Before Goliath wakes up?"

"Yep, I'll be right back," the Doctor chirped, disappearing through the door, and bounding up the stairs.

* * *

**I'm afraid this chapter is a bit of a mess. What are your t****houghts? Haven't heard from you guys much... I'd love it if you'd drop me a line!**

**Anyway, thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Xanthavia has subdued Valanon for now (man, those names are ridiculous), there's a bomb threat, protesters outside, an annoyed Time Lord, a bunch of semi-bewildered police officers, and a UNIT doctor standing in the middle of it all...**

**Special thanks once again to Sheena, without whom this would be a different (read: probably not as good of a) story, and this chapter simply would not exist as it is. She's inspired me, and taught me a lot. :-)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

ELEVEN

Within a few minutes, the TARDIS was materialising in the holding area of the police HQ in Leeds. The Doctor took a step outside, looked around, and tried again. The second time, it rematerialised around the unconscious Valanon.

"That's the… that's the…" PS Pitkin said, pointing at the blue box with awe.

"Yeah, it's the box you saw on that video," Martha sighed.

"Erm," said a shocked PS Stevens. "When you go in there can you ask for my phone back?"

"Really? _That's _what you have to say about this whole business?" she asked, half-irritated, half-amused.

"Well, erm..."

"Whatever. I_ could _ask for it back, but there's no way in hell he's handing it over to you until all this is put to rest," Martha told him. "Right, gentlemen, it's been interesting. Continue to hold the fort here – do your best with the crowds outside – are you still going to try to evacuate because of the bomb threat?"

"I reckon we'll have to," Pitkin sighed.

"Okay – good man. And we will deal with all the other rubbish that's going on."

"Which is what, exactly?"

Martha grabbed Xanthavia by the hand, and led her into the TARDIS. She locked the door behind her, just in case one of the sergeants got it into his mind to check out the interior.

Valanon was sacked out on the floor of the console room.

"Oh dear," Martha said. On instinct, she picked up his wrist and checked his pulse. She was somewhat surprised to find that he had one. "What do we do with this one?"

"I don't know how to contain him safely without keeping him sedated," the Doctor said. "You and I can't lift him, I don't think, and I don't trust our peacekeeper not to try and stab him, so…"

"Okay. Calm-down drugs all-around then," Martha sighed, referring to the sleeping dragon, and the mild sedative they'd given Curtis Malmay.

"The other alternative is, Xanthavia, if you don't mind being locked back up in the bedroom with your game…" the Doctor began.

"Absolutely not," Xanthavia said. "Not with Valanon on-board. I'll need to keep watch!"

"Thought as much," the Doctor said, exhaustedly. "So, Dr. Jones, would you mind?"

"Not at all," she said, heading for the infirmary. "What are you going to do?"

"I told you. I have a spaceship, a time machine, and access to a man who can manipulate reality. So I'm gonna go access him. We've got a little bit more time before the dragon wakes up… let's see if we can't get him vanquished securely, rather than yet another dose of tranquillisers."

* * *

This time, the Doctor set the TARDIS down just outside the Malmays' front door. No-one would be able to pass, as it took up the entire space between the railing and the wall, but they weren't going to be there very long.

The Doctor knocked on the door. Tim answered.

"Hi!" he said, rather surprised, and also rather relieved to see them.

"Hi Tim! You remember the lovely Xanthavia."

Tim's eyes grew really wide, as he reached out to shake Xanthavia's hand. "Wow. Nice to meet you. Up close and personal."

The Doctor guided Xanthavia's right hand into Tim's, for the handshake, and then they all stepped into the Malmays' flat.

"I see she's... changed clothes," Tim said, looking her over subtly.

"Yeah," the Doctor sighed. "The gold-tape leotard was a bit... well, I don't have an adjective for it, really. So, Martha dug up some clothes left behind by our friend Donna."

"Good call."

"Is Curtis here?" asked the Doctor.

"'Course he's here."

"Well, let's load him up. Time to make a hero out of him."

"How's that?"

"I've worked out a way that he can save the day. Where is he?"

"He's asleep," Tim answered. "He's had a hell of a day. Can't it wait until morning?"

"Tim, there's a fire-breathing dragon that's going to be awake in an hour."

Tim sighed heavily. "Fine. I'll get him. Is this going to be dangerous?"

"Not in the least," the Doctor said.

"Okay. Wait here," Tim said, disappearing down the hall.

"Who are these people?" Xanthavia asked, once Tim was out of sight.

"Oh, erm…" the Doctor began, awkwardly. "Xanthavia, you _do_ know that you're not from here, don't you?"

"Yes, that's quite clear."

"Do you know where you've come from?"

"Not really. Is that odd?"

"Not under the circumstances. And I'm honestly not sure where you've come from either, or what you're made of, or any of that," the Doctor said. "But one thing seems clear: there's a man named Curtis who… erm, _created_ you. Or, at the very least, he _did something_ and has certain abilities, that brought you to us. Perhaps it brought you across from another dimension, or another reality – I just don't know."

Though the Doctor did feel as though she was definitely _created_ by Curtis, rather than displaced. Nothing about her had suggested where she might have come from, other than the brain of someone who lives in early twenty-first century Western culture on the planet Earth, but isn't necessarily in-tune with it. But he thought it would be more palatable for her to hear, if he suggested that this was merely a sideways move for her.

"I don't understand."

"Frankly neither do I," said the Doctor. "What do you remember before climbing the clock tower?"

"Erm… nothing. I walked onto the top of the building, I felt the passion in my heart, anger over the innocent creature killed, and I demonstrated my ire!"

"Walked from where?"

"I don't know. Out of a… a cloud?"

"Okay, that tells me something," the Doctor said. He took her hand momentarily, and patted it. "We'll find a place for you, don't worry."

In the next couple of minutes, Curtis appeared in the parlour, wearing the red hoodie he'd had on before. He was yawning hard, but when he saw the Doctor standing in their flat, he seemed to regain focus rather quickly.

"Where's Dr. Jones?" he asked.

"Curtis, you're being rude," Tim warned.

"Well, at least she's _real,_" Curtis whispered.

"Whispering doesn't make it better," Tim whispered back.

"Speaking of people who aren't real, Curtis, I'd like to meet Xanthavia," the Doctor said. "Xanthavia, this is Curtis Malmay, the man I was telling you about."

"Oh. Right," Xanthavia said, with some trepidation.

Curtis said nothing – he only stared at her. And then he seemed to catch himself, and he stared at the floor. From then on, the two of them would not make eye-contact, so the Doctor chose to answer Curtis' previous question and change the subject completely.

"Martha is preparing another dose of tranquilliser for Valanon, who is currently unconscious in the console room. Things being what they are, we can't have him waking up, with no recourse for keeping him under control."

"So, he's too much to handle, and you're solving the problem by pumping him full of drugs?" Curtis asked. "Typical."

The Doctor stepped very near Curtis, who then took a step back. He realised he needed to back off, but then said, very quietly, "Curtis, the way you created these characters, they can't be anywhere near each other without violence – not while they're both awake. We can't keep them locked up forever, because… we just can't. We have to problem-solve."

"So problem-solve," Curtis urged him. "Shutting people down with chemicals isn't problem-solving! Quit acting like a doctor!"

"All right, then… I'm going to need your help, and we're going to have to act fast. And I think I just thought of a short-term solution to tide us over for the long-term solution. Curtis, grab your art supplies, and then everyone come with me."

* * *

The Doctor had taken Curtis' sketchbook with him the last time they'd left the Malmays' flat for the TARDIS, and it had been since then sitting on the lone seat in the console room. Curtis stood transfixed, staring at Valanon on the floor. Martha stood nearby, watching both of them, still wearing surgical gloves. The syringe was prepped and lying on a control board with its safety cap on.

Curtis had just expressed to her a vehement desire _not_ to see Valanon drugged again, and had taken a position of authority as Valanon's "sort-of dad." Tim had told him that was daft, but the Doctor and Martha had both agreed that if anyone should have a say in what happened to the artificial people, it should be Curtis, and they would, indeed, refrain from sedating him unless it was absolutely necessary.

"But you just said, _drugged again,_" Martha said. "I think it's important that you know, he hasn't been drugged. He's unconscious because Xanthavia knocked him out."

Curtis turned to look at Xanthavia, acknowledging her for the first time since they met.

"You did?" he asked her. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm a peacekeeper, and he is a warrior!" she answered rather defensively. "He is a danger to us, and all the territory surrounding, and he murdered a beautiful, innocent creature."

"But I told him to do that," Curtis said. "I mean… I made him that way."

"And you made me this way, too, didn't you?"

"Yes, but…" He put his hood up, and leaned against the railing, apparently overwhelmed and choosing to power down for a few moments.

"Curtis," Tim said. "You can't just ignore this problem."

"I'm not. I'm removing myself from an argument," Curtis said, crossing his arms over his chest. In this gesture, he was quite child-like, but everyone in the room felt his decision was wise. Except for Xanthavia, who didn't fully understand any of what was happening now.

"Well, I'm glad we're talking about how these people were created," the Doctor said, picking up the sketchbook, and flipping to the page with the drawing of Valanon. "Because it might be the key to a bit of peace and quiet in the TARDIS while we get the overall problem taken care of."

"How's that?" asked Tim.

"Xanthavia's drawing came with a paragraph, an explanation of who she is – intelligent, strong, peacekeeping. Valanon's did not. So, he's nonverbal, feral, and seems only to know to defend himself if he feels threatened. He's a bit like an animal… a really large one, with weapons. But I'm thinking, if Curtis wrote an accompanying paragraph, something that would make Valanon _not_ try to attack us when he wakes up, something that allows him to speak, and be reasoned with…"

"He's a warrior," Curtis said. "You can't just go changing him! He's my character, and I say…"

"Curtis, what we have right now is a powder keg," Tim said, indicating Valanon on the floor.

"That's his nature!"

"Yeah, well, his _nature _is bound to explode at any moment, and there's no telling how much damage it will cause."

"But it would be interfering with my artistic process! I did not conceive him to be a bloody milquetoast!"

"He's not going to be a bloody milquetoast, Curtis, we just have to make him safe!" the brother retorted.

Curtis pulled his red hoodie tighter around himself, and began a short pace… three steps away, three back. "He's a warrior! He's not safe! Nothing is safe! He's… he's…"

"He's _you_, isn't he?" Martha asked.

Curtis retreated to the railing. "I dunno," he muttered.

There was a longish silence in the TARDIS console room. Everyone was processing. Then Martha spoke.

"Tim, you thought Valanon was a villain," she said. "But he's just misunderstood. He doesn't have a voice, all he has is his nature. He's a warrior. He fights at every turn. And you thought that Curtis wouldn't paint as a hero anyone who harmed an animal. Well, what if the animal - the lion - is merely symbolic? Of… of what?"

"I dunno," Curtis shrugged. "A disease?"

"Disease?" Tim asked.

"Well… that's the way the rest of the world sees it."

"You want to slay it?"

"I just don't want it slaying anyone else."

"It doesn't…"

"I want to control it, so it doesn't control me. Okay? Valanon wants to control the lion."

"Curtis, long since, have you…"

"Tim, it's my mind," Curtis interrupted. His body language suggested he'd like to retreat further into his red hoodie. "And it's my artistic process. Don't mess with it."

"Oh, God," Tim mused. "I'm such an idiot."

The Doctor took a deep, revelatory breath, and sighed. "Okay. Okay. Plan B, then. Plan C? No… wait, which plan is next?"

"Let me try one more time," Tim said, patting the Doctor on the shoulder. "Curtis, I know you have a process, and I know you don't want to change who you are, and now I understand why you don't want to change who Valanon is. But if he wakes up, and nothing has been done, we are all in danger."

"Martha?" Curtis asked, after considering his brother's words for a long moment.

"He's an artificial person," Martha said to him. "He can't stay in our world – neither can Xanthavia nor the dragon - and the only one who can solve that little problem is the Doctor, with your help. So, right now, there is no safer place for Valanon than here, with us, with the Doctor, in the TARDIS."

"I don't believe in the Doctor," Curtis mumbled.

"Well, you need to start," Martha said. "You're too clever not to. And as long as Valanon is in the TARDIS, he will need to be contained. Somehow. Things are too volatile. You said you don't want _the lion_ hurting anyone… but you don't want Valanon to hurt anyone either, do you?"

"No."

"Xanthavia can be reasoned-with, and might be convinced to stand down. But when he sees her, he'll go after her, and she'll have no choice but to defend herself, and none of us will be able to stop them physically. Trust me, you didn't see the first time they went at each other… it was pretty epic. And we've confiscated his weapons, but he's still got feet and fists. What if he lashes out, and hurts you? Or me? Or Tim?"

Curtis stood deadly still for a minute or so. Then he crossed to the Doctor, and took the sketchbook out of his hands. He sat down on the lone seat, extracted a black coloured pencil from the art set on the console, and began writing. It took him about thirty seconds, then he handed the sketchbook back to the Doctor.

"_Valanon values life, and the continued existence of all living things,"_ the Doctor read aloud. "_But will not hesitate to face and slay his demons with bravery. He cannot be fully understood, but he can be loved."_

"He still won't speak," Curtis said. "But I don't think he'll attack anyone now."

"Thank you," the Doctor said, sincerely. "Now, when he wakes up, we'll just bring him down the hall and give him a sandwich or something. Xanthavia, we need you to be okay with that. He'll wake up having changed a bit – probably he'll have remorse over killing the lion, and we'll take him out of the room."

She crossed her arms over her chest, and said, "Fine. But I won't _love _him, like he said."

"Fair enough," the Doctor said. "Can't have everything. Now, hold on, kids, we're about to execute the second part of the plan!" And with that, he bounded up to the console, turned a few knobs, threw a toggle or two, and the TARDIS was grinding to a new destination.

* * *

The TARDIS now hovered.

The Doctor and Curtis stood at the door, looking out. Martha and Tim sat near Valanon, who was still unconscious – though his pulse was strong. Xanthavia sat on the other side of the console, rather pouting.

"This is Bazyme 3," the Doctor explained, as they gazed at the brown and green planet below. "It's a planet populated with… well, creatures. It's sort of like the Earth was, sixty-five million years before your time."

"So there are dinosaurs and small mammals?" Curtis asked, sceptically.

"Well, sort of. There are about thirty species of dragon, and… well, small scurrying things that, I suppose, if they lived on Earth, could be called mammals."

"Interesting."

"I'd like for _your_ dragon to live here, Curtis."

"_My _dragon?"

"Yes. How does that sound to you?"

"Well, I'd have to see the planet. The surface, the animals and whatnot. I'm not just going to dump him somewhere, just 'cause you say so. Doctor."

The Doctor sighed inwardly, but outwardly, he simply shut the door and said, "Okay – hang on," as he jogged up the ramp to the console.

The TARDIS did its thing, and he jogged back down the ramp, and opened the door again. They were hovering above a lush jungle, and could see all the way down to the ground, where there were, as the Doctor had described, things scurrying, basically minding their own business.

He aimed the sonic screwdriver at the console, and the TARDIS began to fly across the jungle space. "See, this is the Vergrundi jungle, where wildlife is most diverse. If you look closely, you can see camouflaged birds, as well as the different smaller animals you see on the jungle floor. And…"

With a flick of the sonic, the TARDIS pulled up higher over the trees, then went at a higher speed in a different direction.

They found themselves, within a minute, over a large expanse of yellowish grass, and incredibly, the meadow was being stalked-over by six different dragons, four rather large, and two rather small. Two went on grazing, while two others headed for the edge of the jungle, perhaps to find a new kind of greenery to feast on, or perhaps to find a small animal. The other two dragons were fighting, hurling their breath of fire at one another, swiping with their incredibly long claws.

"Whoa," Curtis breathed. "This is impossible."

"Nah," the Doctor dismissed. "Just highly improbable."

Curtis began to pace up and down the ramp, and the Doctor closed the door.

The Doctor looked at Tim for help. Tim just said, "Let him think," with an exhausted shrug. "It's a lot to take in."

After a few minutes of Curtis talking to himself and pacing, he said, "You want to bring my dragon here, and let him live."

"Yes. And I have planets in mind for both Valanon and Xanthavia, that I think you'll find suit their needs nicely."

"Getting rid of them, dumping them on other planets. This is supposedly better than drugs?" asked Curtis. "No wonder the military love you! You _are_ the _Deus Ex Machina_ they need!"

"No, I'm not, Curtis, and I'll tell you why," said the Doctor. "Because first of all, the dragon is too big to just load into the TARDIS and _dump _someplace. Even with infinite space inside, it would take a few days to expand the console room to fit it in here, and we don't have that kind of time. Second, the dragon, plus both Xanthavia and Valanon, are artificial. Which means, I can't just swoop in with my spaceship and take them out of the picture to live happily ever after on some remote planet – not without risking their eventual decay."

"Have you gone back to look at the lion's blood?" Martha asked.

"Yeah. It's breaking down. It's not pretty," he responded. "So, in order to keep them alive, in order to solve this problem, I need _you_. I swoop in with my spaceship and take them somewhere, but _you_ will have to be responsible for their upkeep. _You _will have to keep them alive, Curtis, and it _has _to be you, and you can't be medicated when you do it."

Curtis stalked down and up the ramp once, then looked at Martha. "How?"

"Erm, I think the Doctor would like you to draw them in their new homes," she said. "Doctor?"

"That's right," the Time Lord confirmed. "And you'll have to redraw them every month or so, for the sake of upkeep. They can take care of themselves, but you'll have to maintain their existence. Do you think you can do that?"

Curtis looked shocked. "I think."

"Good. One condition, though. You can make changes to their environment to make them more comfortable, but you cannot change _them_. Deal?"

Curtis nodded, looking terrified.

* * *

**So... thoughts? I'd love a review, since I haven't been hearing much from folks lately. It would make my day!**

**Thank you for reading!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Some feels in this chapter - I think you'll like it. Plus, more hints at solutions to their issues with civil unrest.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

TWELVE

The TARDIS continued to hover.

Curtis was sitting in a folding chair that the Doctor had pulled out from underneath the console room floor, in front of the open door, staring down at the planet Bazyme 3. He seemed to be watching the dragons out in the open, frolicking, fighting, feeding. But the real objective here was to internalise the future surroundings of _his_ dragon.

"Is this how he works?" Martha asked Tim, quietly. "Stares first, then draws?"

"I have no idea," said Tim.

Valanon had awakened a few minutes prior, and as expected, he'd been confused, and much calmer than before. When he'd seen Xanthavia, he seemed to want to attack her, but had backed off, and there was some sort of realisation registering in his eyes. The Doctor had offered him something to eat, and led him down the hall, and the two had disappeared. Martha remembered that the TARDIS' kitchen had run out of sandwich materials, so she wondered if the Doctor was actually cooking for the large man, as he had for her – the thought made her smile.

Suddenly, Curtis started drawing furiously, on a new, clean page in the same sketchbook where he had originally created his problematic, living characters.

"Okay, here we go," Tim sighed. "The plan in action. Is the Doctor sure this will work?"

"He'll very rarely ever say that he's sure of anything," Martha said. "But he's also very rarely wrong."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Martha said. "I'm not the brains in this outfit – I'm the… second-in-command, at best."

Tim chuckled. "Seems as though you'd be the brains in just about any other outfit."

"That may be true," Martha conceded, with a wry smile. "But with the Doctor about, all potential leaders sort of become second-fiddle. If they're clever enough to take a step back, and listen."

There was a long silence, and Tim said, "Look, Martha… erm…"

And then there was a pause. It went on long enough that Martha asked, "What is it?"

"Well, my brother might kill me for asking you this, because I think if he were a more average sort of bloke, he'd really quite fancy you, but…" Tim said, sheepishly, and took a big gulp. "Are you and the Doctor, erm… like, together?"

"Oh, do you mean…"

"_Together_. Like… a couple. You know, _together. _Because listen, I know you're, like, _way_ out of my league…"

"Oh, I see," she interrupted, softly.

"It's just, with my life the way it is, most of my time is occupied with work, or taking care of my brother, and I don't meet many people. Especially in Leeds. Especially people like you. I don't know if I've _ever _met anyone like you."

"Tim, I…"

"And honestly, I don't know how long it's been since I've even just gone out for a drink with someone nice," he gushed. "I'm only twenty-three, and I already feel like an old man."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Tim."

"Sorry. I guess now that it's out of my mouth, I realise how daft it sounds. Just… forget I said it."

"It doesn't sound daft, it's…"

"I'm a struggling heating-and-air-conditioning-unit repairman, and you're a high-ranking military operative-slash-doctor," he said, very quickly. "I'm like… _really_ average. Painfully average, in fact. I can't even keep my hair in order, and you're, like, _so _beautiful, I feel like I shouldn't even look directly at you because…"

"Tim, stop," Martha said, taking his hand. "Just stop talking. You're not daft. You're not average. There's _nothing _wrong with any kind of honest work, and I mean that absolutely. And you _deserve_ to be able to go out and have drinks with someone, and more than drinks, even. You're an incredible person, a caring brother, cleverer than you give yourself credit for."

"Thanks, Martha," he said. "That's a lot of kind words."

"I am one-hundred-per-cent sincere."

"But see, in my experience, the bigger the compliment, the bigger the coming rejection. Which, honestly, shouldn't surprise me in the least."

Martha sighed. "Look, to be frank, the answer to your original question is: no. We're not together, the Doctor and I. But, there's something you should understand about him. Well, about me and him."

"Yeah?"

She let go of his hand, and allowed herself to contemplate for a few moments. The question of whether to travel in the TARDIS again with the well-coiffed, infuriating man in pinstripes had implicitly been raised in the last few hours, and Martha had rather awkwardly dodged the issue.

She'd long-since tired of lying to herself, so, as much as she hated to admit it, the truth was this: in spite of the fact that she'd been engaged since leaving the Doctor's side, she'd been working as Chief Medical Officer for UNIT, she'd been independent, tough as nails, et cetera, et cetera, she was still smitten with him. Her career, ageing a few years, the superficial trappings of her life notwithstanding, she was still the same passionate woman on the inside, and he was still the same sexy, brave, brilliant man.

That wasn't to say that she hadn't grown. There had been lust, and aching, and disappointment in her medical-student days. Today, it was a less acute, but more deeply adult version of all those things. She had pouted like an adolescent back then; today, it was like a howling chasm in her chest when she looked at him. He had begun to represent everything she couldn't have. He was opportunities lost. He was the past coming to haunt her. He was all sorts of grown-up angst that she had chosen long ago to leave behind, in its young, hormonal form.

And yet, she couldn't help but love him. Damn it.

So, one of the reasons why she had been so actively avoiding the question of whether to travel with him again was, whenever he did anything that indicated that he actually _wanted _to be with her, it gave her hope. She couldn't help it – any encouragement she received, some part of her clung to it like an ice floe in a freezing sea. It was _so tempting_ to say yes, to acknowledge that her days with UNIT were numbered, and to think that the timing seemed to indicate the universe trying to tell the two of them that they belonged back in that box together. It was tempting to hope that his keenness meant something – he'd seen the error of his ways, and realised, after all, that she'd be the best companion, partner and lover that he could ask for. But ultimately, she had to tell herself that it would put her right back where she had been, two years ago when she'd walked away. Disappointed. Emotionally drained, with her life not moving forward.

And yet, she still hadn't totally ruled out the idea of rejoining him. Was she completely mad?

Yes, Tim Malmay was presenting another option, but was he really? She didn't truly consider herself to be "out of his league," but their lives were totally disparate, and they had little in common. Moreover, she had absolutely no attraction to him. In fact, he had _completely _blindsided her by reaching out to her – the thought of Tim _as a man _hadn't really crossed her mind. It wasn't the first time this had happened to her, of course, so she had been able, she felt, to cover it with something resembling grace.

And now with the Doctor having re-entered her life, whether just for today, or for more time than that, he was within her sights, which meant that everything else competed for her attention… mostly in vain.

These thoughts were nothing new to her. And they all went through her mind in a space of about ten seconds, while Tim waited for her to say something.

"The Doctor and I have something of a sad history," she said. "We used to travel together, live in the TARDIS together, and share pulse-pounding adventures day after day. And I think we might have had a fighting chance at being _together_ if it weren't for some bad bloody timing. He was really not ready to be with anyone because he'd just lost someone, and I wasn't ready to accept that, so we had to part company. Since then, we've seen each other a few times when something's come up – like today, when UNIT needed his help, but we don't travel together, nor defer to each other on everything anymore. And on paper, we were only ever friends, but at least on my end, there was a lot more to it than that."

"Wow. Whoever he was with before… she must've been _something_, if she eclipsed you."

"Thanks," Martha chuckled. "Actually, she _was _quite something. But it was just as much about the circumstances of her departure from his life, as it was about _her_. It was a set of, again, horribly-timed events that caused him to feel that his lifestyle isn't conducive to getting close with anyone."

"Ah – lifestyle not conducive to getting close. I've been there. I've got Curtis, the Doctor has the universe."

She looked at him, smiled, and nodded with understanding.

"But most importantly, Tim, what you need to know about me and the Doctor is… well, you know, a few minutes ago, how I said that as long as he's around, everyone else is only ever second-fiddle?"

"Yes," he said, somberly.

"That means that as long as he is breathing, he'll be the most important man in my life. I've come to realise that. It's not my favourite bit of myself, but there it is. It will be a very long time before he _doesn't_ – I'll use your word – _eclipse_ absolutely everyone I cross paths with. Part of it is, I learned how to live a better life, through the Doctor. His saviour and warrior's heart is infectious, and it makes everyone in his life want to be better people, and there is no cure for that. But part of it is… well, just the man himself. He's…"

"…courageous and inspiring and has a cool spaceship and looks good in a suit?" he asked, with a smirk.

She laughed. "So, you fancy him too!"

"A little bit, yeah," he sighed, with a small smile. "He's sort of dreamy."

"You're taking the mickey now," she said, good-naturedly. "I reckon I deserve it for being all weak-kneed and icky about it."

"I'm _not_ taking the mickey," he said. "I'm not mocking you at all. I'm trying to tell you I get it."

"Thanks."

"But for what it's worth, dreamy as he is, I think he's got a major blind spot, Martha."

"Thanks for that, too."

Barely were these words out of her mouth before she heard her old mobile phone ringing on the console. Martha searched for it, then grabbed it, flipped it open, and said, "Hello?"

"Dr. Jones," Colonel Mace said, as tersely as he said everything. "Wasn't expecting to hear your voice."

"Hi, Colonel. If you're calling with a time extension, save your breath. Things are out of control – none of it matters," Martha sighed.

"No, I'm calling with the opposite, I'm afraid," said the Colonel. "The dragon is stirring."

"Oh, boy," she sighed. Then she called out, "Curtis, the dragon is waking up!"

Curtis put his hood up, otherwise ignored her, and continued furiously drawing.

"Okay, Colonel Mace, we're working on it," Martha said. "This is something that, I'm afraid, can't be rushed."

"Well, what can UNIT do to help? Because we've got the Leeds City Museum surrounded in anticipation of the thing opening its eyes and realising where it is, and/or that it's hungry, but somehow I don't think seventy-four military officers with machine guns will be effectual."

"And if they start shooting at it, UNIT will be answering for that for the rest of time, you must realise that," she warned. "Trust me. Have you seen the scene outside the police station here?"

"Yes, I saw it on the YouTube," he said. He pronounced _YouTube_, emphasising both syllables, as one might say, _wood spoon_, and it made him sound like he was about a hundred years old. "That's another thing I wanted to tell you and the Doctor: a riot has broken out in front of the police station."

Martha couldn't help but laugh, at this stage. "Of course it has! The animal rights people are clashing with the human rights people, yeah?"

"Near as we can tell, yes," said Mace. "Apparently, some officers tried to get them to disperse a little while ago, and that incited a fight somehow."

The Doctor wandered back into the room. "Doctor, it's Colonel Mace on the phone – the dragon is waking and UNIT's got the museum surrounded. Seventy-five soldiers with guns. Also, there's a riot in front of the police station and don't forget the AFAM lot and their threat."

"Fantastic," the Doctor sighed, overwhelmed by everything she said.

"What's AFAM, and what are they threatening?" Mace asked.

"It's an animal rights group," Martha told him. "That's the short answer. They're threatening to bomb the police station in Leeds if they don't receive proof soon that Valanon is being punished."

"Who's Valanon?" Mace asked, his voice rising.

"The muscle-bound, uncommunicative man who seems to have beheaded a lion in the middle of the city."

"Well, he's locked up, what more do they want?" asked Mace.

"I'm guessing they want blood. Or at least violence," Martha said. "Also, he's not locked up anymore, he's here in the TARDIS. Okay… listen, Colonel Mace, is there anything else? I have to go."

"How did he get free? He was in custody of Scotland Yard!"

"Well… the Doctor. You know how it is. Anything else?"

"No, that's it. If anything changes, I'll ring again. Please tell the Doctor…"

"I know, get a wiggle on," she said, flippantly, rolling her eyes. "Sing me a new one, eh? Bye, Colonel."

And she cut off the call.

The Doctor bent at the waist, let his elbows go _thud_ on the console, and he buried his hands in his hair, with a despairing groan. He remained this way for about ten seconds, and then he let out another groan, this one louder and more like a growl, and stood back up again boisterously, ran both hands through his hair and over his face. "Okay! Shake it off! Dr. Jones, what are our priorities?"

"Why the hell are you asking me?" she shrugged.

"Same reason as always. You've been paying attention, and you've got a mighty brain. So… thoughts?"

"Well, if you're asking me, I'd say the first priority is preserving human life," she said. "As such, I'm afraid I don't see any options other than keeping the dragon surrounded by guys with guns, until we can get reality successfully manipulated, and Mr. Dragon out of town. Wow, life with you is weird."

"Agreed. On both counts… the guns, and the weird," he said. "You know me, I don't like guys with guns as an option, like, _ever,_ but if it comes down to the dragon's life, or a whole bunch of charred human civilians, I'm choosing the guns." He shuddered a bit.

"Also on the subject of preserving human life, there's the bomb threat, and… I don't know how violent the riot outside the police station is getting, but it almost doesn't matter if the place gets blown up if these people go all football-hooligan on each other."

"Yeah, but we don't know if the bomb thing is a real threat," the Doctor pointed out.

"We don't know it's not," she retorted.

The Doctor groaned once again, and walked around the console once. Then he said, "Tim, I'm afraid two thirds of the solution could lie with Curtis. He's already working on one-third…"

"He won't be rushed," Tim said. "I'm sorry."

"I know, I know…" the Doctor said. "We need more time."

"Too bad we don't have a time machine, eh?" Martha asked.

"Wait! We don't need more time. We need more Malmays!"

"What?" Tim asked, suddenly alarmed.

"How would you feel about being an advocate for a man who can't advocate for himself? Think you could pull that off?"

"Erm…"

"'Course you can. Let's get you into some adult clothing, and out into the open."

* * *

**All righty... what's the Doctor got in mind for Tim? How do you calm a riotous crowd of three different factions of protesters? Wellllll...**

**Anyway, as always, I'd appreciate a review! It would make my day so much better if you could let me hear from you!**

**Much luv, and thanks for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hi all, sorry for the longish absence - I've been a-travelin'! Not in a TARDIS, alas, but it was a pretty awesome trip! Back to "reality" now...**

**So, there's a riot happening in front of Leeds police station, there are seventy-five automatic weapons pointed at our dragon, and Curtis can't be rushed. But the Doctor has come up with a way that Tim can help. I think one reviewer has already figured it out!**

**I don't know if the story will advance too far here, but at least we'll get a few good moments! Hope you enjoy. :-)**

* * *

THIRTEEN

Curtis Malmay was still sitting in the doorway of the TARDIS, drawing furiously. He was being left alone, for the moment. His job was to get his creations squared away on new planets. The Doctor's was to diffuse the growing powder-keg in Leeds. The police could arrest some of the rioters, but not all, and not without getting themselves, or others, hurt or worse.

Plus, taking people into custody might not be the best idea, considering that there was currently a bomb threat hanging over the station.

"Okay, preserving human life, preserving human life…" the Doctor muttered to himself, referring to Martha's decided-upon first priority. The riotous situation churned and churned behind his eyes as he pulled PS Stevens' Smartphone from his pocket. He had confiscated it, and with it, the video that Stevens had taken of Xanthavia smacking down on Valanon, because he'd been afraid that its very existence could incite more violence.

Now he believed the opposite.

Or, if not the opposite, at least, something very, very different.

One group was up-in-arms because they were afraid that Xanthavia (Zana, the activist) did not have power, a voice, or any autonomy. They felt that anything she had said to the public was bunk, the result of her strings being pulled, for whatever reason, by… God Only Knew Who.

Another group protested because they felt Valanon was not being "dealt-with" harshly enough.

This video would not prove completely otherwise, but it might shed a very different light on the situation. Perhaps just enough.

He called up the video that the opportunistic Police Sergeant had taken, and watched the almighty scuffle. Xanthavia had already reached Valanon's cell and was throwing herself at the bars, giving a huge, deafening battle cry, and ever so slightly, the bars gave way. She screamed, "Valanon! Valanon! Murderer!" and threw herself at the bars a second time, bending them.

On the video, Sergeant Pitkin's voice could be heard heaving, "Oh my God."

It occurred to the Doctor at that time that "Zana" (with Martha's help) had already defined the word "Valanon" as the idea that each individual can make a difference, because each life has equal value. They'd sold it somewhat as a feminist ideal, as a human rights ideal...

...but if every life has equal value, then it makes sense that an "activist" such as "Zana" would scream it at a man who had brutally killed an animal.

Valanon and Xanthavia then took turns throwing themselves at the bars, until the screws bolting them to the floor and ceiling came loose.

A bit of dialogue could be heard happening near and around the camera.

"What do we do?" from PS Pitkin.

"Oh, _now _you want my help?" the Doctor had asked.

"Do you think the three of us can take her?"

"Excuse me, three?" came Martha's voice. "There are actually four of us here, Police Sergeant Pitkin!"

"Indeed. And no, I don't think the four of us can take her. Especially not with Valanon in the mix," from the Doctor.

"Is that _seriously_ his name?" asked Stevens, loud and clear, obviously the one holding the Smartphone camera.

"Yeah," the Doctor in the video told him. "It's a long story."

"Damn," the Doctor in the console room spat, knowing he might now have to edit out that bit of dialogue.

When the bars had come down, it was Xanthavia who had given them the final blow, and squished Valanon briefly under them. But it hadn't lasted long, and then a mighty scuffle had ensued. It was obvious to the Doctor, even watching the video, that the two of them both had supernatural strength, and he hoped that the exaggerated nature of it wouldn't be completely clear to the public on the video, as there were no "normal" humans in the sequence, for comparison.

It occurred to him that some questions regarding security in the Leeds police HQ holding cells might arise, since two people were able to bring down the bars. But, he thought that was a relatively small price to pay. PS Pitkin and company would have to have their bars reinstalled anyway, and there was currently talk of a whole new police station.

"How do we stop them?" Martha could be heard shouting in the background.

"I don't think we can," the Doctor's voice said. "I'd say, the important thing is to contain them. We do everything we can not to let this rubbish spill outside, if it comes to that."

Eventually, Xanthavia had used her extraordinary thighs to bring Valanon to his knees, then she'd choked him out.

"Someone bring me a weapon," she said, hovering over the unconscious warrior. "He must die."

"Er, no. Once again, Zana, we don't do things that way," the Doctor's voice reminded her, and that was where the video ended.

The Doctor reckoned that the last bit about the weapon and _he must die _ might prove a tad controversial, so he cheated, and used the sonic screwdriver to truncate the video before those words came out of Xanthavia's mouth. Then, he backed up the video, and muddled up the audio just enough, in the place where he himself confirms that the prisoner's name is Valanon.

Martha re-entered the console room then.

"How's he doing?" he asked her, referring to Tim.

"He picked out John Smith's tweed suit from 1913," she sighed. "He's thin enough for it, just not tall enough, so we hemmed the trousers with some duct tape, and it actually doesn't look half bad."

"Wow. Bowtie and all?"

"No, I talked him into just a striped tie. Blue and maroon – nice and sane."

"Hair?"

"He said he would buzz it all off, and even out the facial hair."

"Think that'll work?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. I guess we'll see how he looks when it's done."

"Does he need help with his hair?"

"I'm not cutting his hair, Doctor."

"You helped Zana the Activist."

Martha sighed. "She's a woman – it's less weird. And I didn't cut her hair, I just styled it – I do that to my own hair every day. Plus, Zana the Activist hasn't…"

She was silent for a moment, so he asked, "Hasn't… what?"

"_She_ hasn't asked me out."

"He's asked you out?" the Doctor said, crossing his arms over his chest. He gave a frown that betrayed _interest_ in the topic, but absolutely no amusement.

Martha was a bit surprised at this response. There was a time when a revelation like this would have made him laugh out loud, and begin to tease her, push her in the direction of saying _yes,_ because why not? She recalled his reaction after she'd confessed to kissing Riley Vashtee after their near-death experience in an escape pod off the Pentallian.

"Blimey!" he had exclaimed boisterously back then, with a big smile on his face. "You should've said something – we could've brought him aboard! Riley Vashtee, eh? He'd make a good teammate. And probably a good boyfriend – he _is _sort of handsome. Although…"

And that had gone on for a minute or two, much to Martha's chagrin and annoyance.

But now, he just scowled.

She shook off the reverie, and answered his question. "Well, no, but he was going to."

"But you shut him down?"

"Sort of. Well, no… I'm nicer than _that_."

"But you didn't give him any hope, did you?" Then, he seemed to catch himself. "I mean… that is… if there is no hope. Is there hope?"

"No," she said, evenly, looking him directly in the eye. "You know there isn't."

"I _know_? No, I don't. He's a nice bloke – how am I to _know_?"

"How are you to know? Really?" she asked, supremely irritated and not bothering to hide it. "You can ask me that after all this time?"

"Well…"

"Same old Doctor, I suppose," she sighed. "And same old Martha, too."

"Actually, no. A lot has changed," he told her, pulling his arms closer in, and now staring at the floor.

"Such as?"

"Okay," Tim's voice said, interrupting, entering from the hallway. He stopped ten feet from them, wearing the slightly-altered grey tweed suit. His hair was shaved down to a half-inch buzz, he had a thin moustache, and a hint of five-o'clock-shadow. It was neither a beard nor a clean look, but it was a look of its own, and at least it was even. He stood with his arms spread out. "Do I look like an adult?"

"Except the shoes, yes," Martha said, with a smile. On his feet, he still wore the navy blue canvas trainers, the pair he'd been wearing all day with his jeans and casual shirt and jacket.

"Oi," the Doctor said, knocking her lightly on the arm with the back of his hand. "His shoes are fine."

Tim said, "Sorry – I couldn't find a pair of _adult_ shoes in my size, that didn't make me look like a prat, so…"

"I think it's very dashing," said the Time Lord. "Speaking of sartorial miracles, were you able to find anything to fit Val?"

Martha pulled a face. "Not really. His body is too… let's just say _weirdly-proportioned._ Unless you want him to wear a muumuu or a car cover."

"Okay," the Doctor sighed. "Let's hope for the best. Zana the Activist? What's she up to?"

"She seemed overwhelmed. She's just lying there on Donna's bed… the door's open. I told her not to wander."

"Okay, here we go," the Doctor said. "Tim, bring Val out here, and try to explain to him what's going to happen. We know he can't speak, but we'll assume, for now, that he understands English, since he comes from an Englishman's brain, and he's been given an inner-life and conscience."

"Here goes nothing," Tim said, turning around and disappearing down the hall, in the direction of the kitchen, where Valanon still sat.

The Doctor brandished the Police Sergeant's Smartphone. "I'm going to do it."

"Okay. I'll call PS Pitkin," she said, pulling her own phone from her pocket.

He set about hitting the necessary buttons, as did she.

"PS Pitkin, please," she said. "This is Martha Jones – he and I met earlier. My partner and I have the non-communicative man in our custody. Yeah… put me through."

She waited only about twenty seconds.

"Pitkin here," the voice said on the other end.

"Hi, it's Martha Jones. I just rang to tell you, the Doctor is posting the video to YouTube," she said. "You'll need to do something to alert the nutters outside, so they see it. We're hoping it'll change the mood of the crazy convention going on."

"The video? What video?" asked Pitkin with a touch of panic in his voice.

"What do you mean, _what video?_ The one that PS Stevens took, of Zana Curtis fighting the non-communicative man."

"What, are you two fucking insane?" asked the very, _very _northern Police Sergeant.

"No," she said. "Tell the crowd. Please."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know," she said. "Get someone in plain clothes to go out, and pose as one of the protesters."

There was a pause. Then, "Fine. But if this causes more violence, it's on you, do you hear me?"

"I do hear you," she said. "And I'm all ears if you've got a better plan for diffusing the riot. It'll show the feminist group that Zana the Activist isn't a bloody puppet, and the animal-rights people that Valanon's crime is not being taken lightly. With any luck, the AFAM idiots will withdraw their bomb threat, and that's one more thing of your plate, eh?"

"The building's been searched, and no explosives have been found, but yeah… point taken."

"That's good news," Martha conceded. "But we still have a growing crowd of pissed-off social activists, and even if there's no bomb, who knows what the rioters are packing, or planning?"

"All right, we'll do it, but… understand, these things take time."

"We understand about time," she said. "But don't dawdle, yeah?"

With that, PS Pitkin cut off the call, and Martha shut her phone, then opened it again.

She dialled another number. "Everdeen," said the voice of Martha's right-hand Sergeant. "Hi, Dr. Jones."

"Hi there. I need your help. Can I get you to meet some friends of mine with an SUV, no strings attached?"

"Strings attached?" he asked. "I'm insulted you would even imply that there would be strings attached."

"Everdeen, I need your word that you're not going to complicate things by telling Mace, or anyone else higher-up, who might try to stop you, accost me or the Doctor, or otherwise try any other horning-in rubbish."

"Yeah, yeah, I got you."

"Your word."

"You have my word. I'm sorry about before," he said, sheepishly. "Truth be told, I believe in you, and your judgement, more than any military man. I should've just kept my mouth shut."

"Thanks for that. I need you to park outside the police HQ, where you can be seen by the crowds. A friend of mine is going to meet you. You'll know it's him because he'll be wearing a grey tweed suit with blue trainers, and a blue and maroon tie. His name is Tim. And he'll have Valanon with him – the big muscle-y guy who can't talk – remember him?"

"Yeah," said Everdeen. "Just watched the video where he gets his arse kicked by Xena Warrior Princess."

"Already?"

"Yeah - I've got alerts on for videos having to do with the situation in Leeds."

"Good - that probably means others do as well. And, her name, Sergeant Everdeen, is Zana the Activist," she corrected. "Let's not get our wires crossed."

"Oh, sorry," Everdeen said, and she could _hear_ him rolling his eyes. "When do you need me?"

"ASAP."

"I'll get there as soon as I can. Where do I take them?"

"The Doctor and I will meet you with the TARDIS, somewhere outside of town," she said. "One of us will ring you later and give you instructions."

"Ten-four. See you soon."

"Everdeen is on-board," Martha reported to the Doctor, shutting her phone again.

"You trust him?"

"Yeah, I do. Well, eighty-five per-cent, but it's better odds than anyone else in UNIT."

"Okay. I'll take you at your word."

The Doctor crossed the console room, and knelt beside Curtis, who was still looking down upon the florae and faunae of the planet Bazyme 3.

"Curtis?"

"Not done yet."

"I know. But have you memorised the landscape sufficiently well, that we could go someplace else, and you could keep working?"

"Mm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Okay, because we've got an emergency situation back in Leeds, and we need to see to it," the Doctor explained.

"Mm."

"Okay then," the Doctor said, coming back up the console. He said to the Time Rotor, as he flipped a toggle that made the vessel go, "Back to England with you, old girl."

The TARDIS' grinding stopped a few seconds later. It had materialised on the deserted semi-dark top floor of Leeds Police HQ, and the Doctor and Martha stepped out. They easily found a stairway leading up to the roof, and when they emerged under the starry sky, they could hear the loud crowd below. They looked down, and could see people screaming at one another, pushing, shoving, occasionally throwing punches. The language was growing increasingly abusive, and each group had long-since ceased feigning respect (or even tolerance) for each other's causes.

After a minute or so, they heard the crowd die down, and a man's voice ring out saying something unintelligible to them. With that, a bunch of little lights came on below.

"I love the era of the Smartphone. They're looking for the video," the Doctor whispered. "Pitkin actually sent someone in to stir the pot."

"Kinda thought he wouldn't."

"Me too."

They watched for another minute or two, and watched the crowd's emotional texture change. People were now, milling, but not screaming, probably talking to each other and asking questions, rather than threatening groups whose agenda did not precisely match their own.

All three hearts raced. Both stomachs were aflutter. With "viral" social unrest like this, anything could happen, and they were playing a dangerous game. They had already attempted to manipulate the situation, and failed, and made things worse…

"…but we can't let things stand," the Doctor commented, with no preamble. He didn't fully realise he'd said it out loud,

Fortunately, Martha was on the same page, having much of the same inner monologue as he was, and she said, "I agree. This is our responsibility."

"At the root of all this is something of alien origin," the Doctor mused. "And that puts it on me."

"And me. I'm here too."

"Are you?" he asked, turning his head to look at her.

"Of course," she whispered, sidling up. She took his hand and stood with her arm pressed against his. "I'll always be here when you need me."

"How about tomorrow?"

"What's going to happen tomorrow?" she wondered, looking up at him.

"I dunno," he shrugged. "Maybe nothing. I just think I'm going to need you."

She smiled weakly, and laid her head against his shoulder for a few moments.

Then, she spotted a black SUV pull up along a nearby kerb, in a very conspicuous spot. "Yes! There he is! Everdeen is coming through!"

"Okay… next phase of the plan," the Doctor sighed.

And they walked hand-in-hand back through the rooftop door, and descended the stairs, making their way back to the TARDIS.

When they entered, Tim and Valanon were in the console room, staring at one another nervously, and Curtis was still hard at work in a folding chair just inside the door, completely unaware that there were people coming in and out.

"Ready?" the Doctor asked Tim.

"No. But let's do it anyway."

"Good man."

* * *

**Confession time: I'm struggling not to let this story go off the rails, in looking for a climax and resolution. It's starting to feel a bit like an out-of-control octopus (and that's counting stuff I've written, and not posted yet). It's also starting to look like the climax may be rather quiet and practical, but feel-good, and makes sense. It will not be pulse-pounding action...**

**Honestly, I could really use some feedback! Thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

**So, not sure how this chapter will be received. It has echoes of a previous chapter during which things went awry... **

**And folks, this is as climactic as it gets. :-) Resolution has been coming along, with Curtis' drawing, videos posted, and now, as I see it, one last thing remains to be tied up: Valanon, and the protesters. Here's part A of Valanon's arc ending...**

**Which brings me to my disclaimer: I'm about to introduce a character named Sydney. We won't see much of her, but she'll be important to Valanon's resolution. I hope she doesn't strike you as "too convenient," because I'm having a bit of a hard time with her myself. Ultimately, I decided that the Doctor must be owed favours by one of every type of person on this planet and every other, so why not call in one of them?**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

FOURTEEN

Tim and Valanon made their way down the stairs to the front lobby of the police station, with the Doctor and Martha following behind.

"Oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph," said PS Pitkin, who was at the front desk, just now hanging up the phone. "What now?"

"PS Pitkin, this is Tim Malmay," the Doctor said.

Tim's demeanour changed then, and he stuck his hand over the desk for a shake. "It's a pleasure, PS Pitkin. I'll be advocating for Mr. Warner."

_Whoa, thought Martha. He really _has _adopted the air of a grown-up in the last few minutes._ It occurred to her then, he'd had to grow up quickly. At this stage, she and the Doctor had basically only seen him scared and exhausted. This was what he was like when he had his full game face on, being someone's caretaker.

"Mr. Warner?"

"That's the name we're going with," the Doctor said.

"Er… okay," Pitkin said, clearly fatigued of the whole business. "So what, as his advocate, are you here to tell me that what happened in holding with Zana Curtis was wrong, and we're responsible?"

"No, we're here to transfer him back into our custody," Tim answered.

"I thought you already did that," the police sergeant said, turning his attention to the Doctor.

"We did," the Doctor said. "But now we're doing it with a proper advocate for individuals with special needs – just ask Mr. Malmay here – he's been doing that job for years."

"Really?" asked Pitkin. "He looks like he's twelve."

"Well, I look what? Thirty-seven? Appearances can be deceiving," the Doctor said quickly. "But what you're missing is the best bit of this, which is, _the crowd outside will see them together_. I'm hoping that'll quell the last bit of doubt about this man's rights being violated."

"What's going to happen to him?" asked Pitkin.

"Do you really want to know?" the Doctor retorted.

"You know what? I don't. If you can get this crowd out of the way, and get Conan the Barbarian off our hands, we're all for it. Tomorrow, we'll just pretend that none of this happened," Pitkin said. Again, he was clearly fed-up.

"Well, if you're going to pretend it never happened, then…" the Doctor said, digging in his pockets. He pulled out PS Stevens' Smartphone, and handed it to him. "You'll need this back."

"Thanks," said Stevens. "Didn't think I'd ever see it again."

"Be responsible, would you? Over the next couple of decades, _thinking _about what you post online will become more and more important. Don't be an idiot. I've already deleted that video. If anyone tracks it off YouTube, they'll trace it to my IP address, which is unfindable by any computer on this planet, so basically they _can't_ track it to an IP address. Your name, and your phone, are completely out of the equation now. Call it my little gift."

"Thanks," Stevens said, pocketing the phone rather sheepishly.

The Doctor asked, "Pitkin, can we count on the officers outside escorting my friends here across the crowd, to a rendezvous point with another of our operatives?"

"Er... okay," Pitkin answered. "Where?"

"There's a black SUV parked caddy-cornered over that way," the Doctor said, pointing in a particular direction. "The man at the wheel is UNIT. He's with us. I think. He'll take it from there."

"Whatever," sighed Pitkin. "Anything you need, I guess." He got on his radio and began to give instructions.

"Ready for this?" the Doctor asked Tim, placing one hand on his shoulder.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Tim said, lightly.

Martha turned to the large figure in the X-holster, and said, "Valanon, this is all going to be over before you know it. Soon, you'll have your own space, and all this claustrophobic, noisy rubbish with people everywhere… it'll be just a memory."

Valanon nodded, and then stared at the ground.

Tim turned to him. "The Doctor's given you a temporary name, that we can tell people, just until this is over. Just like with Xanthavia, we aren't trying to change your identity, but we cannot present you as a warrior called Valanon – that would not do at all in this world. So you are Valentine Warner."

Again, Valanon nodded.

Tim continued, "We're going to go outside now. It will be pretty crazy, but a lot of those people just want to see you properly cared-for. Others, yes, want to make sure that justice is done for the lion you killed, but can you blame them? In any case, don't worry about them. The Doctor has already found a way to back them down a bit. Just put your trust in me. And don't feel as though you have to do anything other than stand by me, and leave with me when the time comes. All right? Come on."

He gestured toward the door, and headed for it himself. Valanon followed, with clear trepidation.

Together the two of them stepped out, and the crowd first went insane, and had to be held back by the officers who had been standing guard. But then, the din died down as people realised they were trying to say something.

As before, bright lights came on quite suddenly, and were aimed straight at the entryway where Tim and Valanon now stood.

"Hello everyone," Tim shouted. "My name is Tim Malmay. I am going to act as an advocate for Mr. Warner."

The crowd murmured something.

"Mr. Malmay, can you tell us his full name?" asked a voice in the distance, with the definite timbre of a professional reporter.

"His name is Valentine Warner," said Tim. "He is, as you know, non-communicative, but he can hear just fine, as well as comprehend English. We have yet to determine the full status of his mental health."

"How did you find out his name?" asked another voice, presumably that of a journalist.

"I cannot discuss that at this time, as it would violate Mr. Warner's rights to privacy," Tim answered.

"Where is he from?"

"I cannot discuss certain things until more is known about Mr. Warner's psychological state."

"Then, who are you?"

"I'm local," said Tim. "Actually, I've just moved to the area, but I've got many years of experience advocating for an individual with special needs."

"What's next for Mr. Warner?"

"He will need to answer for attacking a man in front of the cathedral this morning…" Tim began.

"And for mutilating a majestic animal!" called out a voice from way off to the right, clearly without a journalistic tone.

"Well, now, as you have seen, his crime against nature, if that's what you'd like to call it, has already been somewhat dealt-with by Zana Curtis, the activist."

"Where is she?"

"I'm sure I have no idea," Tim said, with a tired smile. "My concern is with Mr. Warner. Come to that, I've consulted with the Leeds police, and with other advocates in this matter, and as no organisations are claiming ownership of the lion, including any wildlife monitors or preserves abroad, there may be no-one to press charges."

This caused another small din.

"I'm going to take Mr. Warner into the care of my organization now," he said. "I am a member of a small group of doctors and advocates, and we are providing a service that will see to him, and people like him. Any relevant public records will become so in due time, however, as his representative, I'm going to move that none of his personal details be made available to the public."

"Are you a lawyer, Mr. Malmay?"

"I am not," he said. "But I've worked closely with them before, and I will do so again. I will also work closely with his doctors."

"If Mr. Warner is found to be mentally imcompetent, will you and he seek not to stand trial for the attack in front of the cathedral today?"

"Most definitely, of course, with the help of a lawyer, if one is needed. But we will work within the law, rest assured," said Tim. "I believe that Mr. Warner became overwhelmed, and lashed out – I have seen this before with a case very similar to his. I am not a doctor, so I am not positing any diagnosis. I'm speaking from experience, however."

A clamoring for attention ensued, no single voice was allowed to emerge from the white noise, and Tim could see that his moment had passed.

"Thank you all for your time," he shouted, then he waved amiably at the crowd. He nodded at the officers standing nearby, and suddenly, all four of them surrounded him and Valanon, and were escorting them into and across the crowd, as they had been instructed to do. Tim continued to wave and smile amiably at some of the folks now shouting questions at him, but he did not say anything.

Soon enough, they had traversed the throng, and were sliding into the backseat of a black SUV, with a black man at the wheel, wearing a military uniform.

Tim pulled the door shut. "Are you Sergeant Everdeen?"

"I am," said Everdeen. "You're friends of Dr. Jones'?"

"We are," Tim answered. "Where are we going now?"

"We're going to meet the TARDIS. The Doctor thought it would be a good idea to get a ways out of town, so we have about an hour's drive."

* * *

Inside the police station, the Doctor and Martha (and everyone else) had been listening, using a megaphone with reversed functions, "doctored" by the sonic screwdriver.

Police sergeants Pitkin and Stevens both went outside and began attempting to disperse the crowd from one end, while the officers who had escorted Tim and Valanon tried from the other side.

And to everyone's surprise, they had some success.

The crowd was a bit bewildered… the feminists were somewhat satisfied that Zana the Activist was being allowed to _act_, those concerned with the rights of people with special needs had at least seen someone who appeared level-headed, attempting take care of 'Valentine Warner's' needs. The animal rights people had seen, at the very least, Valanon beaten up for his transgression… and were confused by the fact that the lion seemed to come from nowhere.

At this stage, everyone was shrugging and moving away from the scene. Though the Doctor and Martha realised that it wasn't really over, in the age of information-sharing at the touch of a button: the protesters, and others, would be looking for follow-up.

"Curtis Malmay has one wicked clever brother," the Doctor muttered, as the officers swept the scene.

"He's been dealing with the system for a long time," Martha said. "Just like me, he knows how to vamp. He knows how these people talk. Have you called Everdeen?"

"Sent coordinates to his phone." The Doctor was quiet for a few moments, then took a deep breath and said, "We're going to need help, Martha."

"Yeah, we are."

"We need Valanon declared incompetent, but you can't do it yourself," he said. "You've been seen by the mob."

"Right. I'm also not a psychiatrist. And even if no-one knew any of that, they would eventually discover that I'm UNIT, and we already know they're suspicious of military involvement."

"And we don't need to alert them to anything extraterrestrial going on."

"No, we do not."

"Which means we can't use a UNIT lawyer either. Which is a shame, because _not_ having to have a cover story for a regular lawyer would be nice. Just being able to tell the truth about where Valanon came from…" he paused, then sighed. "But, you know, I was thinking, I have an acquaintance that works at the CPS who owes me a favour. Do you have any friends, maybe from med school, who are psychiatrists outside of UNIT? What does Tom Milligan do?"

"He's a paediatrician," she said.

"Well, it was worth asking."

"As it happens, I do know a couple of people I could call. But Doctor, I don't know anyone who would declare him incompetent without examining him."

"I wouldn't hear of it," he said. "Let them examine and analyse him, especially with Tim present. They'll find him delusional, and they'll find all kinds of anomalies in his brain if they do an MRI, given the fact that he's not real. We just need it done quickly, which is where having an _in _is handy."

"That's true," Martha said. "You don't have an _in?_"

"Sure I do," he shrugged. "It's you."

"Oh. Fantastic," she sighed. "Do you think your CPS friend would agree not to press charges?"

"This is not someone I know well. But we only _want_ the charges dropped if the diagnosis is right," the Doctor said. "We don't need anyone breaking the law for us. Again, our interest is expedience."

"Okay. Now we set about stacking the deck for Valanon, but we stay, as Tim said, within the law. If we want all this social fervour to go away, we have to be kosher about it."

"Absolutely."

"But, what about the fact that he's not on the grid at all? Won't the CPS think that's weird?"

"That, I might be able to get her to overlook."

"Her? Okay, so… _she_ owes you a favour…" Martha's tone was sombre and somewhat questioning, and she said it before she could stop herself. The Doctor had always more or less _noticed_ the subtleties in her voice and body language, it was just that now, he felt impelled to respond to it.

He smiled. "Six months ago, there were plasma coils around a block of flats here in London, and the TARDIS picked up the signal, so I knocked on the door of one of the homes. A woman named Sydney answered the door. Turns out, she'd been seeing the soil in her garden flowing about like water, and was glad for the help."

"Oh. Okay."

"It was a species of giant slugs, having been teleported down from the planet Saucran to inspect the soil on Earth for nutrients – the ruling species has long-since destroyed their own. The slugs were non-sentient emissaries – basically drones, made of flesh. No consciousness, no brain. I tried to communicate with them, but that was a no-go, obviously, so I devised a salt-replicating-and-shooting device just in time to see them come out of the ground."

"Ew," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"I stood in the doorway of the TARDIS while Sydney watched from her kitchen window, and shot at them until they all dissolved. It wasn't hard, but if hadn't been there, the slugs would have taken down the foundation of her house, and all the others on the block. So, she reckoned she owed me a favour."

"Slugs."

"Yeah! Ugh, it was a mess. Slug goo everywhere. All milky and viscous and dripping off of…"

"Lovely. I mean… you know I didn't ask, right?"

"You wanted to," he said, with a smug little smile.

"Cheeky."

"Nah, I just know you, Dr. Jones. And I'm ready to start telling stories. Being honest and whatnot."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It can be freeing."

"So… are you telling the truth? About the slugs?"

"Who the hell would make up something like that?"

* * *

The Doctor had chosen coordinates along a dark road in northern England, and had sent them to Sergeant Everdeen's mobile phone. It was about one o'clock in the morning when the SUV finally located the TARDIS at the roadside. Tim gave a prearranged "secret" knock, and Martha let him and Valanon inside. She stepped out to thank Everdeen personally, and then the plucky Sergeant drove off, seemingly away from Leeds.

By then, the Doctor had talked to Sydney Chilton, the formerly slug-having CPS barrister, who was up late working on a case. She agreed to make Valentine Warner a priority, as soon as the paperwork came through. She even agreed to get in touch with Jacob's family (the man whose femoral artery had been slashed by Valanon) and smooth things over with them, if it turned out that 'Mr. Warner' was diagnosed as incompetent.

Martha had left a message with her friend, Dr. Harry Dinesha, a psychiatrist with whom she'd shared two dates in the first year of medical school. Their liaison hadn't worked out at all, but their friendship had. She said it was urgent that Mr. Warner be seen today, and begged him to ring back.

They explained their plans to Tim, who agreed it was probably the only way to go, not to mention sequestering his records on the grounds of his mental illness and privacy clauses, and all that.

"Now all that's left is to wait for Harry's call," Martha said.

"But in the meantime, we can bring Xanthavia to her new home," the Doctor said.

* * *

**Okay, folks... winding down now. **

**Please don't let the crickets take over - a review would be such a day-maker. ;-) Thank you for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Winding down now... this is the penultimate chapter, once again, aided by the loving Sheena :-)**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

FIFTEEN

The Doctor himself saw Xanthavia off on her new home planet. He had parked near a town, and walked in with her, showing her around. She understood that she had the choice of engaging with the town straight away, or not. "But, I think it really would be better for you, and for Curtis, frankly, if you _did _engage with them at some point," he advised her. "You know, become part of the community in some capacity."

The continent had loose government, but it did not keep tabs on people, so the fact that she hadn't existed two days ago would not pose a problem. The culture here would support her strength, and her need to keep peace. The Doctor thought she could easily find work in a sort of law-enforcement capacity, or become a leader in some other way, if she chose. Curtis created a home for her, and she was able to settle in, explore a bit, before the Doctor walked away.

"I'm not sure of your exact rate of decay," he told her. "But we're going to be safe, and suggest that Curtis put himself on a two-week maintenance schedule."

"So what happens to me when he… _maintains_ me?" she asked, with a look of distaste on her face.

The Doctor shrugged. "Nothing. You shouldn't feel anything. Maybe you'll notice some changes, but nothing that would hurt, or be uncomfortable."

"How do I get in touch, you know, if… well, maybe something goes wrong? Like, say, if Curtis falls ill, and you don't know about it."

Oddly, the Doctor had not thought of this.

"I will get back to you in the next few days, all right?" he said. "I'll come up with a way… a device, or a _thing_ you can do, so you can find me. Promise. Three days, tops, Martha and I will be back."

"All right," she said, shaking his hand. "Thanks."

After that, the TARDIS hovered while Curtis copied down and memorised some of what he could see, and practised drawing the home and the town, and the surroundings, from different angles. It took a few hours for him to feel satisfied that he could maintain Xanthavia, keep her happy, without changing her surroundings too much each time he drew her.

Meanwhile, Martha crashed in her old room, Tim crashed in one of the rec rooms, and the Doctor attempted to keep Valanon occupied in the console room. It occurred to him to wonder how much, if at all, the artificial people would need to sleep. He himself needed only about a third as much sleep as did a human, though he was starting to feel the need to recharge a bit.

* * *

Martha's friend Harry Dinesha, psychiatrist, rang her mobile phone at around 8 a.m., waking her. He agreed to see Valanon straight away.

"How do you know this guy?" he asked her.

"Do you know where I work, Harry?"

"I've heard rumours that you work for UNIT," he said. "But I didn't think it could be true."

"It's true," she said. "Which means that _how I know this guy_ is a weirder story than I'm really allowed to tell."

"I believe you," he said, stiffly.

"Will you still help?"

"Of course," Harry said. "I guess I can just justify any holes in the paperwork as _confidential government business _or something. Bring him in as soon as you can."

"If anyone gives you trouble, you can refer them to me."

"Sounds fine."

"I should probably warn you, Harry, the patient is non-communicative."

"Okay, I can work with that. Does he have a social worker, or an advocate, or something?"

"He does. His name is Tim."

"Okay, bring Tim too."

"Can you arrange an MRI?"

"Sure."

* * *

By noon, Harry Dinesha was satisfied that Valentine Warner was, indeed, acutely delusional, dissociative, with numerous unexplained brain anomalies, and as such, he was incompetent to stand trial.

By two p.m., the paperwork had crossed Sydney Chilton's desk, and any charges had been dropped. The Doctor assured her that Mr. Warner would henceforth be in his care, and this satisfied her enough to close the file. At that point, she had even looked further into the business with the lion, and had still not found any evidence of an organisation claiming the animal, including wildlife preserves in Africa, which would make him guilty of poaching.

"Can they charge a person for poaching an animal belonging to an African reserve, in the middle of a city in England?" Martha wondered aloud.

"Pff," the Doctor replied. "No idea."

At four p.m., after the Doctor and Martha visited Jacob, who was convalescing nicely in hospital in Leeds, after having had his femoral artery severed. His husband, Eric, took the grapes and set them aside, then hugged them both in thanks, for saving Jacob's life.

"We have some news," Martha said to him.

"Yes?"

"The man who did this to you…"

"Valentine Warner?" said Jacob.

"We've been watching the whole saga," Eric told them.

"Yes," Martha said. "He's been cleared of the charges, by reason of incompetence."

Jacob nodded. "Okay. I'm not surprised."

"Are you upset?"

"No," he said. "Anyone could have seen that he wasn't… you know… _all there_."

"That's why you tried to help," the Doctor muttered, miserably.

"Yeah," Jacob agreed. "Is he going to get support, and whatever else he needs?"

"Yes," Martha assured him. "We've found a place for him where he can thrive, and not be a danger to himself or anyone else."

"Good," Jacob said. "I'm going to be all right, he's going to be all right… looks like we broke even."

* * *

It was six o'clock, more than thirty hours after the story had begun, when they were finally able to drop the Malmays off at their home. Valanon had been escorted to his new home by Tim and Martha, and assured, like Xanthavia, that in less than three days' time, they would return with a way for him to get in touch with the Doctor if need be. It would be slightly trickier since Valanon wasn't able to speak, but if Curtis could see to it that Valanon was literate, he could communicate just fine.

Curtis was reluctant, but said he'd think about it, after Martha pointed out that Valanon's quality of life could be greatly augmented if he was just _able_ to read and write.

"He doesn't have to do it all the time," she said to Curtis. "Just so he can get his needs met, and understand his surroundings."

"Fine. I'll think on it," Curtis said, curtly.

Martha's phone buzzed in her pocket with a text message notification. "Tish again," she said, looking at it.

"Who's Tish?" asked Curtis, adopting, for the first time in a while, his hand-on-hip, professorial air.

"My sister," Martha said.

"What's she want?" the Doctor asked.

"She says to check YouTube," Martha sighed.

The Doctor blew air gently out through pursed lips. "Ugh, for the love of… what now?"

"I'll do the honours," Tim said, digging a laptop computer out of a shoulder bag that was sitting nearby. It took him a minute or two to get on the Wi-Fi, then he pulled up YouTube, and typed in _Leeds._

"Oh, no," Martha groaned, seeing the first featured video. "He's one of ours."

The thumbnail showed quite clearly a UNIT officer – beret and all – apparently talking to an interviewer.

"Well, at least it's BBC," the Doctor pointed out. "Let's get it over with."

The Doctor and Martha sat down on the old tartan sofa, and Tim and Curtis sat down on the floor across the coffee table from them. Tim turned the laptop sideways so they all could see it, and clicked on the video.

"As you may recall," said a news anchorman with a crisp RP. "Quite the mêlée has been occurring in Leeds' city centre today, including, incredibly, the appearance of a dragon. Many questions, obviously, remain unanswered, but city officials have speculated that the animal is an as-yet undiscovered species of reptile, or perhaps a highly isolated reptilian-avian hybrid that evolution somehow forgot. Well, the story gets even more bizarre, as we turn to our correspondent in Leeds, Madeleine Puryear. Madeleine, are you there?"

"I am, indeed," a blonde said, now speaking from the sidewalk in front of Leeds City Museum. "I'm here speaking with eye-witness Sergeant Patrick Missel, who claims the animal has disappeared. Sergeant Missel, can you please tell us more about what that means?"

A very young, pink-skinned man in a UNIT-issue beret began to speak, in anything but a crisp RP. "It means just that. The thing disappeared. We were all watching. The dragon woke up, and we all cocked our weapons waiting to fire because the thing was baring its teeth and screaming at us, and then, suddenly it backed off. Next think you know, it's gone."

Puryear gave a half-frown, half-disbelieving-smile, and said, "How d'you mean, _next thing you know, it's gone_?"

Missel chuckled. "It backed off from attacking us, and then it was like… transparent. Then a bit more transparent. Then it faded away."

There was a long pause, then Puryear said, "You're having a laugh, aren't you?"

"I swear to God, I'm not," the Sergeant said, hand raised.

"What's this one?" the Doctor asked, pointing at a video featured down the right-hand side of the screen. It appeared to be a video of the same Sergeant Missel, but it was posted forty-five minutes later, and was slightly longer.

Tim clicked on it, and it turned out to be another BBC report, from a different anchor, talking about the mysterious disappearance of the Leeds Dragon.

It opened with an aerial shot of the masses gathering in front of the police station. "In addition to the outcry over human rights, animal rights, and everything in-between, happening overnight in Leeds," a female voice said. The picture switched to an aerial shot of the sleeping dragon. The quality was not good – it was rather grainy, and one might have been well within one's rights to believe it was simply a pile of grey canvas tarps. "There is now the question of what happened to the dragon. One eye-witness came forward just after the animal seemingly _disappeared,_ and since then, other, similar accounts from military and civilian alike have been coming in steadily."

It showed a big of the interview they'd just seen:

"It backed off from attacking us, and then it was like… transparent. Then a bit more transparent. Then it faded away."

The long pause, followed by, "You're having a laugh, aren't you?"

"I swear to God, I'm not."

From there, it switched to five more blurbs, similar descriptions of what had happened to Curtis' dragon.

The original woman's voice said, "Some are calling it mass hysteria. Some are calling it paranormal. Back in a minute."

Martha noticed that the fifth video from the top was entitled, "Who is this man?" with the cartoonish silhouetted profile of a thin man with spiky hair.

"Tim, will you please click on that?" she requested.

The video turned out to be an amateur-made conspiracy-theory video of the sort Martha had seen numerous times before in her work with UNIT. She'd seen quite a few on the Doctor himself, most of which got everything wrong.

It was composed of footage of the Doctor and Xanthavia on the roof of City Hall, followed a grainy, jumpy video taken from far away as the Doctor intervened between Valanon and UNIT that morning. It also contained some distant video of Martha and Xanthavia addressing the crowd in front of the police station. There was then a montage of unreliable pictures of the Doctor, in different places throughout the world over the past few years All of those, of course, were in his current body, but there was one very brief shot of him in a previous body, though in it, he was standing next to the TARDIS. He doubted that whoever had produced the video had realised _that _was him.

The voice speculated over the Doctor's identity, his role, his abilities, his origins, as well as Martha's… as she had been seen with him today, and also a few times in the past. There were a couple of blurry shots of Rose and/or Donna, plus Captain Jack, one photo of Sarah Jane Smith, one of a retired UNIT civilian operative named Josephine Grant, and three or four other people that Martha couldn't identify. It described his doings, and why so much of it happened in secret…

In conclusion, the voice said, "So who is he? If you're a long-time follower of the phenomenon of the Doctor, you'll know that most people in the community believe him to be a myth, that the majority just follow the _saga _of the Doctor, they follow the idea, as though it were a marketable serial. They think he's a _Deus Ex Machina_ for otherwise unexplainable resolutions to phenomena that are also unexplainable. They'll tell you there's government intervention, even foreign governments, super-secret military circles putting out fires they can't talk about… so they've made up the Doctor as a bedtime story for all of humanity to comfort itself.

"But none of that is correct. You've seen it here: the Doctor is real. He talked down Zana Curtis, the activist, then his box disappeared from the roof. He also intervened when guns were being pointed at the non-communicative Valentine Warner, and I believe he is the reason why the dragon is now missing from the roof of Leeds City museum. I can't explain it, but perhaps none of us was meant to."

"See, I told you," Curtis muttered. "_Deus Ex Machina._"

"Yeah, that's fine, Curtis, except now I'm getting the credit for something _you_ did," the Doctor reminded him.

"Well, I actually liked that video," Martha decided. "It was the best one of those I've seen."

The Doctor pulled the laptop toward himself and Martha, and aimed the sonic screwdriver at it, so that he could see some of the coding behind the videos posted about the strange events in Leeds. "The important thing is, for the moment, the mystery seems to be outweighing any outrage that might arise. Which is just perfect for me just now. I'm used to living shrouded in mystery. I'm _not_ used to diffusing civil and social unrest with civil and social ruses. In any case, I've got to take some down-time, if I'm going to make a device so Zana and Val can get in touch with me and Martha."

"You and Martha?" Martha asked.

"Yeah, so?" he shrugged.

"Erm…"

"I'm tired," Curtis said, standing up. "My hand hurts."

"Turning in, mate?" Tim asked him.

"Hold on, Curtis," Martha said. "We've solved the problem of the characters you created, and the hubbub _they_ created. But we still haven't solved the problem of… well, you. And what you can do. And the potential that all of this could happen again, if you don't try to rein it in."

"Rein it in," he muttered.

"Curtis, this isn't just about your behaviour or a mental illness… this goes far beyond you," Martha said, standing up. "You have a power that you don't know how to control yet."

Curtis put his hands on his hips, as though he were going to say something… but it fell flat. He fell into a contemplative stare.

"Curtis, your drawings are going to have to be _very_ benign," the Doctor said. "I'm sorry, but unless you're willing to do something to take yourself off the Ifasma frequency, you won't be able to create any living, moving, characters, and you should be extremely careful about plants and topography as well. You can't risk manipulating the reality of the planet you live on."

"To do it, I'd have to…" Curtis muttered.

"Medicate. You're connected to, as you said, the building blocks of the universe on a quantum level," the Doctor said. "You can't just _will _it away. You'll need something that attacks that neurotransmitter at its molecules."

"If I did that, my inspiration would go away," Curtis continued to mutter.

"Yeah – I thought we'd made it clear that medication was not an option," Tim said.

"You had," the Doctor agreed. "And that's fine. I'm just saying… if you leave things the way they are, he won't be able to draw without wreaking havoc. Unless he's simply maintaining his charges, that is."

"Ugh – this is rubbish," Tim groaned. "It's like a Catch-22."

"That's exactly what it is," the Doctor agreed. "I'm sorry. I mean, I suppose, if you absolutely _must_, you could create a being that lives on a different planet, but it's not ideal. I don't want you _not_ to let your creative juices flow…"

Martha interrupted. "Curtis, what are your sleep habits like?"

"What?" asked the man in the red hoodie.

"Sleep. How many hours a night?"

"I dunno… maybe four."

"Four?" Tim asked, incredulously. "Mate, what are you doing in there all night?"

"Mostly drawing."

"Do you know that four hours a night isn't enough?" Martha asked.

"I'm not an idiot," Curtis murmured.

"What are your eating habits like?"

Curtis shrugged like a child, and said "I don't know," though the words didn't actually form. It was more of a hum or a tone that communicated the words.

"Lately, he's been living on pasta, cheese, and various frozen hors d'oeuvres from Tesco," Tim said, rolling his eyes. "Real healthy."

"Well, Curtis, you have _got_ to get more sleep," Martha said. "That might help with the GABA situation. It won't be enough to change your behaviour, but it might tweak the _oscillations_ just enough to cure you of your unwanted power."

"We'll try it," Tim said, resolutely. "A non-meds solution? We're all over it, Dr. Jones. What else?"

"I might suggest that he eat certain foods for a day or so before beginning a drawing," Martha said. "Again, this isn't the sort of thing that _cures_ a mental illness or changes a person's quality of life dramatically in most cases, but if all we're trying to do is adjust some of how your neurotransmitters fire…"

"What foods?" asked Tim.

"Some foods that actually contain GABA…" Martha put all of her weight on one hip, and thought for a few moments. "Lentils. Other beans."

"Bleah," Curtis exclaimed.

"Nuts," Martha continued. "Like… erm, I think walnuts, almonds. Oh, and sunflower seeds. What else?"

"Shrimp," the Doctor offered. "Some fish, like halibut. Citrus fruits and tomatoes…"

"Dark berries, dark greens like spinach and broccoli…"

"Potatoes – fresh ones, not chips from the corner joint – and cocoa beans," the Doctor said.

"Wow, that give us a lot of options," Tim said. "What do you think, Curt? You get a bee in your bonnet about creating an animal or a person or something, just hold the thought for a day or so, eat three _good_ meals beforehand with all that stuff they just said, and…"

"I like _my_ foods," Curtis said.

"I know," Tim responded. "Frankly, so do I. Broccoli, halibut and lentils are not my idea of a tasty meal, not to mention, that kind of food is expensive, but… we don't have to have it all the time, eh? We can afford it, if it'll give you some control over this thing. Control over your own life. We'll find some recipes, try 'em out when we can, we'll find a way to make you like them. And me too. You get inspired, let me know. We'll do a shop."

"I'll think about it."

"Curt, mate, they're giving you a solution that doesn't involve _taking your meds_," Tim pointed out. "I know you'd like things to go back to the way they were, and someday, they might. But for now, you can't practise unprotected drawing."

Curtis smiled a little at that.

"He's right," the Doctor said. "You can't. I'm saying that as the guy who'll likely have to deal with the fallout if you do. You can call me a myth, Curtis, but I'm standing right in front of you, we've problem-solved together today, and I'm exhausted. And I'm still not done. No offence, but I don't want to have to do this again because of something you drew, especially since we know it's preventable. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Really? Okay?"

"Yeah," Curtis grumbled. "It seems like an okay thing to do… eat good food so I can draw."

"Thank goodness," Martha breathed, with some relief.

"Can I go to bed now?" asked Curtis.

"Yes, please do," Martha said, sticking out her hand. "It's been a pleasure, Curtis."

He didn't make eye-contact, but he did shake her hand.

"Curtis," Tim said, as though reminding him of something.

"It was nice to meet you, Martha," said Curtis, rather quietly. "And Doctor."

"Nice to meet you too, Curtis," Martha said. "And Tim."

As they slipped out the door, the Doctor turned back and asked, "Oi, Tim. Ever think of becoming a social worker?"

* * *

**This is only a temporary goodbye to the Malmays. I'm brewing a sequel, which will tell an entirely different story about Curtis' power, and the fallout that comes with it. I'm not sure of the title yet... it will be posted after my current "Good Omens" story is finished. :-)**

**So, one more chapter to go... we've got to wrap up Martha and the Doctor, don't we? So, stay tuned for one more go.**

**And as always, I would love, love, love a review! I've been getting crickets again - some other noises would be wonderful! Thank you for reading.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Final chapter, everyone!**

**Martha returns to the mundane business of everyday life... **

* * *

SIXTEEN

Whenever there's a good bout of weirdness, Dr. Martha Jones, Chief Medical Officer of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, could count on one thing happening the next day: paperwork.

But Martha Jones, human being, could count on something different: angst.

After seeing the Malmays off, she'd asked to be delivered home, and she'd spent the night in her own bed, alone.

Not that she'd slept more than ninety minutes, in total.

Just as it had been when she'd first walked away from the Doctor after her round-the-world trek two years ago, the saga of saying goodbye was playing like a movie on the backs of her eyelids, and it would not let her rest.

The way he asked, "Really?" with a little bit of a catch in his voice, after she asked to go home, it echoed.

The way she'd said, "Yeah. Sorry," in response, without making eye-contact, and how she _could_ have said something else, something more sensitive. Or how she might have said, "No, not really. Let's talk some more. Let's run some more."

The way he scowled so deeply when he'd set coordinates, and the TARDIS hummed her back to her flat, it hurt to think about.

The way he tried to joke, when he walked into her flat with her, "Oh, come on? You think this place is homier than my console room? What's wrong with you?" But he did so with an air that was a bit forced, and she could see right through it.

The way she sometimes became exasperated at how childish he could be when he didn't get his way.

The way he hugged her and lifted her off her feet, and the kiss he'd planted on her cheek… her skin burned with the ghosts of these lovely bits of affection…

"Dr. Jones?" a voice said from her right.

"Hm?" she asked, before coming to. "Oh. Sorry!" She said this as she stepped aside.

The woman in the black suit with a very tightly-pulled blonde bun who'd said her name was a foreign language teacher within UNIT (_French?_ Martha wondered. _Or German? Can't remember. Her name is Andrea, I know that much_), and was looking at Martha with concern. "You all right?"

"I'm fine, yeah," Martha replied, with a fake smile.

_Pronounced ahn-DRAY-uh, not AN-dree-ah. I remember distinctly being corrected._

Andrea picked up a stack of papers off the printer over which Martha had been standing, staring at the wall behind it, totally immersed in thoughts of another time, another place… though what time and what place, she could not say. It didn't matter, as long as he was there…

"Are these yours?" asked Andrea, offering the stack of papers to Martha.

Clearly, they were. It was a thirty-seven page document detailing the events of their adventure in Leeds, and in the box where it said _Operative's Name_ were the words, in all caps, MARTHA JONES, M.D.

"Oh, yes, thank you," Martha said, taking the papers, and absently watching the machine spit out another several papers. Equally absently, she noticed that the papers were in German. She understood German. She recognized it as a UNIT case precedent from the Berlin office, from 1988. She'd read it when she first started at UNIT, and reported on it, in order to test out of the foreign language classes. That answered it: Andrea was a German teacher.

Martha smiled at her with this revelation, then lazily said, "German. It's German, not French. Heh!" then walked away. Andrea watched her go, with a quizzical look on her face.

None of this mattered, of course, but she was trying so desperately to shake off the ghosts of yesterday and to be in the Here And Now in short order, her mind was grasping at whatever was directly in front of her, because the big picture was too big just now.

In retrospect (which is to say, ninety seconds later), Martha realised that this interaction must have seemed incredibly odd, and that she had failed miserably in her attempt to focus on the moment and seem normal.

Martha was woozy from lack of sleep, her brain was fried from writing the report, she was nervous about handing in her resignation along with the report, and she was supremely distracted.

Andrea would forgive her. Maybe she should make an effort to keep in touch…

She trudged back to the communal office where she had a desk, along with five other medics, and where there was a black duffel back sitting on her chair, containing any former contents of her desk that were actually _hers._ The bag also held two changes of clothes she'd been keeping in her locker here, and a framed photo of herself and Tom, unearthed from a cabinet in her exam room which was otherwise full of paper products and boxes of surgical gloves. She must've shoved it in there in exasperation after the break-up, but she did not remember doing so.

She signed the final page of the report, then stapled it all together.

"I don't like the looks of that duffel," said Sarah McBride, a nurse whose desk faced hers. "And I like even less the looks of that letter of resignation sitting right there, big as you please, on top of your blotter."

"Cheeky," Martha said.

"Sorry – I couldn't help but read it," said Sarah. "Are you really out of here, _effective immediately?_"

"I am," Martha whined. "I can't take the bureaucracy anymore. The compartmentalisation and the protocol… it's so well-organised, it winds up creating messes."

"I don't really know what you're talking about, but I'll take your word for it," Sarah told her. "It's a variation on the same thing you've been saying since just after you started here."

Martha nodded. "I thought it might get better, but I was lying to myself. So, I'll stay on to consult for another two weeks, to tie up loose ends and maybe train someone new, but I can't _be here_ anymore. Leeds did it for me."

"What happened up there?"

"It's a long story," Martha sighed. "But suffice it to say, this organisation tried to hold me back, manipulate me, and showed a basic disregard for the expertise for which they hired me, all pretty much in the name of protocol. I can do more good elsewhere… and I'll certainly be saner elsewhere."

"Oh right. You were with the Doctor. I heard about that."

"You heard I was insubordinate."

"Something like that, except you're not required to follow orders, so they had other words for you. I believe _presumptuous_ was the euphemism."

"Yep, hence my departure. You know, they tried to do all the same rubbish to him, too, and believe me when I say _that _didn't work! The world needs UNIT, don't get me wrong, but they think inside the box, and they don't listen, and they don't let us get on with our jobs. It's ridiculous. I know they mean well, but I don't have the energy nor the desire to affect change from the inside."

"So what now? Private practise? Cure cancer? Pole dancing?"

"Not sure yet," Martha said. "Maybe all three."

"Well, in any case," Sarah said, standing, and coming round the desks. "I'm sorry this big machine has ground you up and spat you out. And I'm going to miss you."

They hugged, and agreed to keep in touch, and then Martha folded her letter of resignation into thirds, slid it into an envelope, and wrote "Colonel Mace" on the front, in blue. Then, with letter and report in-hand, and duffel over her shoulder, she waved to Sarah, and walked down the hall to the lift, then up two floors to Mace's office.

The Colonel tried to hide his delight in reading the first page of her report, and then tried to hide his chagrin in reading her letter.

"Effective immediately?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I don't want to leave anyone in the lurch, so I'll consult for two weeks, and help train a replacement. But not here. It's started to feel like a prison. I feel boxed-in. In every way."

"I see."

"Thanks for considering me for the position, Colonel Mace, and for giving me this chance," she said. "I have appreciated you every day that I've worked here, but the work itself is no longer for me. I need to be able to... I don't know, spread out. Do some good."

"Sorry to see you go," he said, professionally, then stood up and held out his hand.

She shook it, they exchanged a few more niceties, and she left.

And that was it.

As she walked down the hall, she thought, _The second goodbye in as many days. Wonder what tomorrow will hold._

She walked out through the perception-filtred door inside the Tower Hill tube station, and almost as though the universe had heard her inner monologue…

"Hi," he said.

He had startled her, with his big blue box parked five feet from the door. It was also perception filtred, though _he _was not, so when he stepped away from it and walked into her path, suddenly she noticed the thing parked there, and she gave a little shout.

"Doctor!" she breathed, clutching her chest mildly. "What the hell?"

"Sorry," he said. Then he reached out his hand, and asked, "Can I take that for you?"

Without thinking, she handed him her duffel, then followed instinctively as he walked into the TARDIS with it.

Only when she shut the door behind her did she realise it.

"Oi! That was a bit smooth!"

"It was, wasn't it?" he said. "But rest assured, I have no ill intent. I just want to talk."

With that, the vessel began to move, and Martha asked, annoyed, "Where are you taking me?"

"Relax, I'm just giving you a lift home," he said.

"Why?"

"I told you. I want to talk."

"About what?"

He sighed, and looked at her with large, drooping eyes, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I think you know."

She stared at him for a long while, wondering what she would say.

"How did you know where and when to find me?" was what she settled on. It took her by surprise.

"Colonel Mace phoned to give me a… well, whatever the stiff-upper-lip version of a bollocking is. He was _quite _displeased that I'd lured you away from UNIT."

"He thinks you talked me out of there?"

"Yep."

"He did that himself!" she exclaimed. "He, and… others."

"I know. And he said something about your coming back to work for me." The Doctor frowned in a way that seemed to say, _I don't understand this planet._

Martha laughed out loud. "He thinks I… wait, does he not know you at all?"

"I think we both know the answer to that question," he muttered.

"Wow, talk about _profoundly_ missing the point," she said, more to herself than to him, as she sauntered up the ramp.

"So, Dr. Jones, that begs the question," the Doctor began. "How would you like to come back and _not_ work for me? Ooh, that was a nice segue-way. I thought it would be harder to broach the subject."

She chuckled. "Another very smooth move, Doctor. But… I don't know if I can answer that question right now."

"Why not? You're unemployed, and we work _so well_ together… honestly, Martha, _so well._ It's like a well-oiled machine. Even when you didn't know it was me, we worked well together."

"I know…"

"And… well, there's still a lot to talk about."

"Doctor, I walked away two years ago for a reason," she argued, her voice betraying exhaustion.

He nodded. "I know. But when I said that I was ready to start telling stories and stuff, I meant it."

"What stories are you going to tell?"

"Ones that I'm hoping will make you _want _to stay," he said. "Just… tell you what. I'm going to need help building devices that will let Xanthavia and Valanon get in touch with me. Two weeks at least."

"You told them three days."

"I've got a time machine. I'll cheat."

"Oh. Right."

"Two weeks. Give me that much time out of your life. Help me with this. And if you don't want to stay after that, then I won't stand in your way."

She folded her arms over her chest. "Doctor, what are you playing at?"

"Nothing," he said, seriously. "I'm not _playing_ at anything, Martha. I'm being quite serious."

"If I stay for two weeks, then you'll tell me your stories," she said. "You'll start being _all honest and whatnot_, like you said yesterday… and you'll make me want to stay?"

"I think so."

A sob welled up in her chest, then threatened her eyes and mouth, but she shoved it back down. She would _not_ break now.

"Are you one hundred per-cent clear about why I left back then?"

"Yes."

"The part that _wasn't_ to do with my family?"

"Yes."

"So you know the thing that might – not will, _might_ – make me stay."

"I do."

"And you're not playing games with me."

"No. No way."

"And you have to tell me in the form of… stories. You can't just say it? Like, ripping off a bandage?"

He looked at the floor, and shuffled his feet, then took a big breath, and let it out with deep exasperation. "Oh Martha... ugh, this is hard. You know me. You know I'm not the most communicative guy sometimes, and this… Martha, this is…"

"Okay, okay," she interrupted. She couldn't bear to watch him squirm that way. Clearly, whatever he was going to tell her, he needed two weeks to work up to it – he wasn't ready yet.

But she felt that the stories would be worth hearing.

For a long time, again, she just stared at him, and he stared back.

"Okay. Two weeks. But you're going to have to let me repack my duffel. All I've got in here is two changes of clothes, and a photo of me and Tom," she said, rolling her eyes.

He gestured toward the door, and Martha walked through it. He followed, with her duffel.

They were in her flat.

She took the bag from him, and headed up the stairs. "I'll just be five minutes. Make yourself at home."

"Okay," he said, softly. "Take your time."

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and turned around.

"Wait… I _just_ left Mace's office. When did he phone you?"

"Erm…" the Doctor said, drawing out the syllable for longer than normal, and then dropping it with a bit of a growl. "Tomorrow."

"What?" she shrieked.

"I cheated there, too."

"You…"

"Yeah. I wanted to catch you before you…"

"What?"

"Had a chance to think too much."

"Wow," she said, turning and walking back up the stairs. "Your stories better be damn good."

* * *

**Thanks, everyone! Once again, I'll let you know, a sequel is on the horizon, featuring Tim and Curtis, and Curtis' amazing ability. It could get kinda dark, though.  
**

**And so, if you've not been in the habit of leaving feedback up 'til now, please do so at this point! I love hearing from you!**

**Happy travels through fanfic!**


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